Entered,  accord  ing  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1862,  by  Abbey  & 
Abbot,  In  tbc  Clerk's  Ofllco  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States, 
for  tbc  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


HTKKKOTYI'KI)    AM)    I'KI.NTKI)    BY 
t.    HOMKK.V.   13  SPRf(U  KTRKET,   N.    \. 


TO 

WILLIAM  CULL  EN  BRYANT. 


2090708 


CONTENTS. 


PAOE 

MAY  DREAMS               .            .                        ....  9 

SHIPS  AT  SEA                                 .                                    .  15 

LEAH .19 

QUEEN  AZORE         .......  22 

OX  THE  RONDOUT 26 

THE  SUNSET  LAXD            ......  30 

VANDERLYN 36 

TWO  MAPLES                      ...            ...  40 

THE  PALISADES            .......  43 

DREAMLAND           .......  51 

BURNS 57 

THE  CATSKILLS 62 

AMONG  THE  FLOWERS 69 

ISAURE 74 

OCTOBER  RAIN            .......  77 

MEADOW  MIST        .......  81 

MY  PALACE                                                      ....  34 


VI  CONTESTS. 

AT  THE  WATERFALL        ....  89 

MY  HARP          .            .                        93 

TO  THE  SOUTH  WIND       ......  06 

WAITING 100 

AGLAIA         ........  103 

ON  THE  LAKE  .  .  .  .  .  .  .107 

SEPTEMBER  TO  APRIL 112 

JUNE  MEMORIES          .            .                        .            .  114 

RETURNED  FROM  WAR    ......  118 

LADY  LISLE     ...                        ....  120 

LEGEND  OF  THE  KAATERSK1LL             ....  123 

THE  RIVER-SIDE          .......  127 

DORA             ........  130 

A  CAVE  ECHO  ....  .135 

CLEON  AT  OROPOS            .            .  140 


MAY   DREAMS. 


MAY   DREAMS. 


0  May  !  robed  in  your  gown  of  flowers, 
Nun-like,  gaze  from  your  balmy  cell, 
Under  your  crown  of  asphodel, 

And  sentinel  all  the  summer  hours ; 

Rising  among  your  daisy  bowers, 
Like  Venus  from  her  cradled  shell ! 

0  May  1  your  cheeks  are  sunset  skies, 
Which  the  lips  of  the  verge  shall  press, 
And  the  amber  clouds  caress — 
Drifting  along  in  the  light  which  lies 
Over  your  soul-lit,  jasmine  eyes, 
In  all  its  golden  tenderness  ! 


1(1  MAY     DUE  A  MS. 

O  May  !  you  seem  a  silver  sea, 
Glassing  an  earthly,  ether  dome  ; 
For  the  songs  of  the  robins  come, 
Like  the  dashing  of  waves  to  me, 
Whose  waters  the  sunlight  seems  to  be, 
And  the  lilies,  the  downy  foam. 

0  May !  fountain  of  dulcet  days, 
And  nature's  vernal  blossoming 
Of  woodland  haunts,  where  pansies  cling 
With  blue-bells,  round  untrodden  ways, 
From  your  dreamy,  crystalline  rays 
Riseth  the  fairy  sylph  of  Spring! 

O  May  !  you  seem  a  tinted  shell, 
Upon  a  tropical,  flowret  shore 
Dashed  by  the  waves  of  zephyrs  o'er — 
A  conch,  wherein  the  sink  and  swell 
Of  soundless  symphonies,  float  and  dwell, 
Heard  in  the  heart  forcvermore. 


MAY    DREAMS.  11 

Down  sinuous  paths  I  tread,  and  turn 
By  dells  where  insects,  in  their  flight, 
Seem  like  stars  in  a  silver  night ; 
Where  flowers  are  but  the  words  I  learn, 
Through  means  which  we  cannot  discern, 
Set  to  the  music  of  the  light. 

Here,  alone,  I  can  once  more  be 

One  with  the  hills,  the  rocks  and  trees, 
And  wrap  my  being  up  in  these, 

In  a  mystic  eternity  ; 

Feeling  more  than  I  know  or  see, 
Lost  in  immortal  fantasies. 

Here  in  a  realm  of  wordless  dreams — 
That  inner  life  which  knows  and  thinks ; 
My  thirsty  spirit  comes  and  drinks 

The  petal  dew  of  golden  streams  ; 

Where  death  is  less  than  what  it  seems, 
And  life  is  subtler  than  the  Sphinx. 


12  MAY    DREAMS. 

I  wander  through  the  sylvan  vales, 
Lush  with  the  richness  of  the  day, 
Where  each  crocus,  in  pied  array, 

Over  the  leaves  of  grass  prevails  ; 

Like  boats  on  a  dark  green  sea,  whose  sails 
Float  in  the  balmy  breath  of  May. 

Here  the  marigold,  dipped  in  sheen, 
In  nooks  of  quiet,  ripe  and  rare, 
Swayeth  its  beauties  fresh  and  fair, 

Above  the  dewy  bank  of  green  ; 

And  seems  a  fairy  palace,  seen 
'Lit  up,  and  drifting  in  the  air. 

Thoughts  of  the  loved  and  lost  arise, 
The  shadow  presence  comes  again, 
I  feel  once  more  my  balm  of  pain, 

I  see  the  moonlight  of  dear  eyes  ; 

And  all  that  in  the  past  I  prize, 

Falls  on  mv  dreams  like  lender  rain. 


MAY    DREAMS.  13 

I  see  the  tulips  in  the  glade, 

Filled  with  the  incense  of  the  day, 
Like  tiny  censers  swing  and  sway 

• 

Before  an  altar  formed  of  shade  ; 
Where  crickets,  in  the  grass  arrayed, 
Shall  pipe  the  matin  mass  of  May. 

I  see  the  mountains  rimmed  with  gold, 
The  verdant  meadows  veined  with  rills  ; 
And  aura,  which  the  light  distills, 

Float  far  along  the  distant  wold, 

And  o'er  the  waterfall,  unrolled 

Like  some  bright  banner  'gainst  the  hills. 

But  vain  were  all  of  these  to  me, 
Had  I  no  golden  memories  here  : 
In  other  eyes  these  scenes  were  dear  ; 

The  purling  stream,  the  emerald  lea, 

Recall  some  cherished  phantasy, 

And  joys  departed,  re-appenr. 
2 


14  MAY    DREAMS. 

And  so,  in  forest  lawns  and  lanes, 

Where  mid  the  friths  of  fern  I  stray, 
I  dream  the  saddened  hours  away  ; 
But  yet  some  mourning  fancy  reigns, 
And  to  the  vernal  view  complains, 
0,  would  that  life  might  be  all  May  ! 

The  years  like  birds  of  passage  go 
To  that  eternal  clime,  the  past  ; 
And  May's  immortal  lot  is  cast 
Upon  their  flight  o'er  all  below, 
Like  sunlight  on  a  field  of  snow, 

Or  some  sweet  rose-leaf  on  the  blast. 

The  hours  their  joys  and  sorrows  bring, 
Bright  Summer  makes  the  hills  sublime, 
Ripe  Autumn  bears  its  frosty  rime, 

And  Winter  crowns  the  north  wind  king  ; 

But  May  is  but  a  crystal  spring, 

> 
That  empties  in  the  tide  of  time. 


If) 


SHIPS    AT    SEA. 


HAVE  yon  stood  upon  the  coast 

Of  the  sea? 
Looking  out  upon  the  host, 

On  the  sea, 

Of  the  ships,  which,  here  and  there, 
Seem  like  cloudlets  in  the  air, 
Yet  bring1  burdens  rich  and  rare 

O'er  the  sea? 

How  the  evanescent  light 
Paints  the  sails ! 


Hi  SHIPS     AT     SEA. 

Casting  back  a  lustre  brig-lit, 

From  the  sails, 

'Till  it  shi miners  high  and  low, 
And  it  pictures  in  its  glow, 
Shadows,  in  the  deep  below, 

Of  the  sails  ! 

How  the  ships  go  sailing  round 

O'er  the  sea ! 
'Till  the  destined  coast  is  found 

O'er  the  sea ! 

Yet  when  bitter  storms  arise— 
Eyelids  drooping  o'er  the  skies — 
Many  a  ship  dismantled  lies 

On  the  sea. 

So  upon  the  sea  of  life 

There  are  wrecks — 

Surging  wildly  in  the  strife 
Human  wrecks ! 

Shattered  by  the  furious  waves, 


SHIPS    AT    SEA. 

Where  the  storm  of  passion  raves, 
Whelming,  in  its  yawning  graves, 
Helpless  wrecks. 

Poets  thoughts  are  ships  at  sea, 

In  his  brain — 
Sailing  wildly  o'er  the  sea 

Of  his  brain  ; 
And  the  argosies  come  in 
To  the  harbor  of  his  pen, 
With  the  fire,  Promethean, 

Of  the  brain. 

Many  are  the  ships  at  sea, 

In  the  mind — 
Drifting  round  upon  the  sea 

Of  the  mind — 

Ships  of  Love  and  Hate  and  Fear — 
Ships  of  Sorrow,  dark  and  drear, 
Sailing  'mid  the  tempests  sear 

Of  the  mind. 
2* 


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20  LEAH. 

And  waft  them,  lotus-like,  away— 
But,  Leah,  where  art  them  ? 

The  moon  will  press  her  dimpled  cheek 

Against  the  bosom  of  the  sky, 
And,  as  we  dreamed  once,  seem  to  speak 

To  silver  clouds  which  drift  them  by. 
Like  men  before  the  upraised  Host, 

The  wavy  grass  again  will  bow 
Before  the  breeze  it  loveth  most— 
But,  Leah,  where  art  thou? 

Again  the  cloak-like  clouds  will  fall, 

And  wrap  them  round  the  mountain's  base, 

Leaving  their  peaks,  so  gaunt  and  tall, 
Like  islands  in  the  sea  of  space — 

That  ether  sea,  whose  phantom  waves 

Dash  heaven's  shores — as  thoughts,  a  brow — 

Where  beauty  never  sinks  in  graves — 
But,  Leah,  where  art  thou  ? 


LEAH.  21 

And  so  I  sit  and  muse,  and  dream 

On  fancies  shimmering  bright  and  free  ; 

For  each  one  is  a  crystal  stream 

Which  ever  tends  its  course  to  thee — 

To  thec,  loved  Leah.     In  my  heart 
There  is  a  void  which  echoes  now, 

'Till  that  sad  question  seems  its  part — 
Dear  Leah,  where  art  thou? 

And  now  the  days  will  come  and  go 
Like  shadows  on  a  mountain  stream  : 

And  I  will  bow  me  down  in  woe, 

And  mourn  thee,  bright,  departed  dream. 

The  Summer-time  will  come  again, 

And  flowers  will  cling  them  round  her  brow, 

Like  memory-pictures  round  the  brain — 
But,  Leah,  where  art  thou  ? 


QUEEN    AZORE. 


MY  loved  and  beautiful  bride,  Azore, 
Stooped  to  drink  at  the  wayside  spring, 

When,  riding  up  from  the  crescent  shore, 
Garbed  as  a  hunter,  came  the  King. 

He  begged,  with  a  smile,  to  quaff  the  bowl, 
But  still  his  heart  to  her  eyes  would  cling — 

Those  sea-blue  boundaries  of  her  soul. 

A  cry  went  out  o'er  the  land  for  war — 

You  who  have  heard  it  know  how  it  thrills  ! 

I  dreamed  that  this  was  my  rising  star, 
So  in  the  breath  of  the  daffodils, 


QUEEN    AZORE.  23 

Which  sails  the  blowing  tamarisks  o'er 

To  the  impervious  haze  of  hills, 
I  bade  adieu  to  my  bride  Azore. 

Pointing  to  cliffs  in  the  wilderness, 
I  said,  ere  weeping  I  turned  away  : 

Lo !  the  years  their  saddened  lips  shall  press 
And  leave  their  traces  in  slow  decay 

On  these,  but  not  on  my  love  for  thee. 

Then  the  clouds  loomed  up  across  the  day, 

Like  bergs  of  ice  from  the  Northern  Sea. 

So,  for  the  rights  and  the  hopes  of  man, 
'Mid  serried  rank,  and  weary,  and  sore, 

I  marched  far  north  with  the  army's  van, 
To  pitch  our  tents  on  an  alien  shore. 

Thon,  with  iron  lips  and  flaming  breath, 
The  booming  shock  of  the  battle  ran 

Along  the  lines,  from  the  gorge  of  death. 


24  QUEEN    AZORE. 

Then  it  chanced  that  men  unfurled  my  fame, 
Like  a  rare  gonfalon  to  the  air  ; 

And  oft  while  I  dreamed,  a  vision  came 
And  rose  o'er  the  bastion's  scaling  stair, 

And  the  grim  guns  on  the  parapet  o'er — . 
A  sweet,  vague  vision,  white-robed  and  fair  : 

My  fair  and  lovable  bride  Azore. 

I  closed  my  eyes  in  a  blissful  gloom, 

While  sated  with  rose  blows  down  the  gale  : 

A  voice  is  borne  on  the  rich  perfume, 
Up  from  the  platanes  of  the  vale. 

As  I  seek  for  her  who  calls  aloud, 
Above  the  rneshcs  of  fragrant  bloom, 

In  cornice  of  darkness  hangs  a  cloud. 


•- 


So,  with  a  nameless  feeling  of  loss, 

I  took  the  way  for  my  home  once  more, 

When  peace,  like  a  great,  white  Albatross, 
Passed  over  the  realm  from  nhoro  to  shorr 


QUEEN    AZORE.  25 

The  King  gave  honors  that  might  be  seen — 

Gave  me  the  hand  of  the  bride  Azore  : 
My  bride  no  more,  but  Azore  the  Queen  1 

'Tis  the  same  old  story  o'er  again, 

Of  broken  vows  and  a  blighted  trust — 

Of  two  hearts  severed  in  wrong  and  pain — 
I  murmur  !  yet  all  God's  ways  are  just. 

For  a  watchful  sense  this  record  keeps — 
My  love  for  the  Queen  is  trailed  in  dust, 

But  honor  sits  in  her  heart  and  weeps. 


ON    THE    RONDOUT. 


BRIGHTLY  each  glowing  moonbeam  falls 

Upon  thy  cheek,  0  beauteous  stream  ! 
While  Naiads,  from  their  wat'ry  halls, 

Come  up  to  drink  the  midnight  dream  ; 
And,  peeping  forth  their  sparkling  eyes — 

Glist'ning  like  amethystine  dew— 
They  cause  the  tiny  swells  which  rise, 

To  seem  like  stars  reflected  through. 

As  in  this  drifting  bark  I  sit, 

And  float  me  slowly  down  the  tide— 

<r 

Watching  the  shadows,  as  they  Hit 
From  off  the  shores  on  either  side — 


ON    THE    RONDOUT.  27 

I  picture,  in  ray  fancy  free, 

An  old,  old  story  o'er  again ; 
But  rustling  zephyrs,  wafting  me, 

Bear  off  the  mem'ry  from  my  brain. 

High  loom  the  hills  on  either  side, 

As  floating  past  their  feet  I  go, 
With  nothing,  save  the  breeze,  to  guide 

My  tiny  shallop  'mid  the  flow 
Of  rolling  waters,  coursing  on 

To  swell  the  billows  of  the  sea  ; 
But  now  those  waters,  hushed  and  calm, 

Seem  sleeping  in  tranquility. 

'Tis  so  with  many  a  human  heart, 
Which  often  throbs  so  low  and  still, 

That  from  its  light,  exterior  part, 
It  seems  to  flow  rnloosed  from  will  ; 

But  ah !  beneath  that  shadowy  gauze, 
Wild  thoughts  and  passions  often  roll, 


28  ONTHERONDOUT. 

Which  know  no  bound'ries,  save  the  laws 
That  sway  the  ocean  of  the  soul. 

And  now,  as  past  the  hills  I  drift, 

And  gaze  upon  their  frontlets  high — 
Which  seem  like  genii,  as  they  lift 

Their  frowning  shapes  against  the  sky — 
I  picture  to  myself  the  thought 

That  I  am  floating  down  life's  stream  ; 
While  all  the  hills  seem  sorrows,  brought 

To  mar  the  beauty  of  its  dream. 

And  slowly  now  I  drift,  and  gaze 

Upon  the  rocky,  moonlit  shore, 
Where  Indian  maids  in  other  days, 

Oft  sat  and  dreamed  their  weird  thoughts 

o'er ; 
Or  leaned,  perchance,  their  bronzed  brows, 

Each  on  her  warrior  lover's  breast — 
Pledging,  in  accents  low,  the  vows 

Which  they  alone  could  know  the  best. 


ON    THE    KONDOUT.  29 

And  still  I  flow  adown  thy  cheek 

Like  some  lost  tear,  0  beauteous  stream ! 
As  fancy  strives  in  vain  to  seek 

A  tide  more  lovely  than  ye  seem. 
0  stream!  when  in  my  boyhood's  days 

I  saw  my  portrayed  face  in  thee, 
There  came  no  cloud  to  dim  my  gaze, 

But  all  was  sweet  simplicity. 

But  now  the  face  which  looketh  down 

Is  traced  with  many  a  line  of  care, 
And  sorrows  which  we  cannot  drown 

Have  penned  their  names  out  plainly  there. 
Now  fading  fast  is  every  dream, 

But  would,  N0  God !  my  life  had  been 
For  me,  as  calm  as  this  loved  stream — 

I'd  mourn  no  days  departed  then. 


3* 


30 


THE   SUNSET   LAND. 


OUT  in  a  beautiful  laud  I  kuo\v, 

Over  a  golden  sea  of  mist, 
Whose  waves  arise  like  drifts  of  snow, 

Dashing  on  shores  of  amethyst  :— 
Out  in  this  dreamy  land  of  mine, 

Oft  I  wander  alone,  and  stand 
On  the  brow  of  my  Apennine, 

Gazing  down  on  the  Sunset  Lund. 

Only  in  dreams  I  wander  there — 

Only  when  sleep  has  kissed  my  eyes- 
Then  I  seem  but  a  tiling  of  air, 

Floating  beyond  the  chaliced  skies— 


THE    SUNSET    LAND.  31 

Then  I  gather  my  robe  of  cloud 

Closer  about  me,  as  I  stand 
Crowned  and  kingly,  amid  the  crowd, 

Gazing  down  on  the  Sunset  Land. 

Only  there  would  I  love  to  dwell — 

There,  'neath  arbors  of  linden  trees, 
Pranked  with  tints  of  the  asphodel, 

.Round  the  sleeping  anemones. 
Now  I  can  only  grieve  and  pine, 

Walking  with  measured  tread  the  strand — 
A  shore  of  pearl  and  coralline — 

Gazing  down  on  the  Sunset  Land. 

There  the  beautiful  day-girl  kneels, 
Washing  the  hills  with  tears  of  dew — 

Drying  them  with  her  hair,  which  steals 
Softly  over  the  ether  blue  : 

Tresses  of  Sunset !  oft  you're  bound 
By  the  hills  with  a  silken  band, 


32  THE    SUNSET    LAND. 

Gyving  the  azure  cope  around, 
In  the  beautiful  Sunset  Land. 

Only  there  would  I  love  to  dwell- 
There  in  a  land  of  ceaseless  June, 

Where  I  could  tread  each  fairy  dell, 
Plucking  the  fruit  and  wild  festoon. 

There,  where  the  bright,  ethereal  days 
Float  like  banners,  dreamily  fanned 

Down  to  the  past,  on  lambent  rays — 
There,  in  the  beautiful  Sunset  Land. 

Only  there  would  I  love  to  dwell, 

Where,  echoing  back  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  strains  of  ivory  conchs  would  swell 

From  wonderful  isles  of  madrepore. 
And  cloudlets  flecking  the  glowing  skies, 

Seem  but  as  footprints,  on  a  strand 
Bathed  in  billows  of  crimson  dyes, 

In  the  beautiful  Sunset  Laud. 


THE    SUNSET    LAND.  33 

As  I  stand  on  the  Apennine, 

Gazing  down  on  the  land  I  know, 
Oft  I  sec,  7neath  a  trellised  vine, 

Angels  floating  the  dim  below. 
And  one,  whose  face  I  oft  have  seen, 

Beckons  me  with  her  slender  hand — 
Fallen,  yet  beautiful  Magdalen ! 

Waft  me  down  to  the  Sunset  Land. 

On  me  now,  as  in  days  of  yore, 

Rest  your  eyes  of  violet  dusk  ; 
When  soft  sea  breezes,  on  the  shore, 

Breathing  aromas  richer  than  musk. 
Blew  your  ringlets  over  my  face, 

And  the  wavering  verdure  fanned — 
Magdalen  fallen — redeemed  at  last, 

In  this  beautiful  Sunset  Land  ! 

So  I  dream  of  the  land  I  know, 
Where  the  limning  sunset  rays, 


34  THE    SUNSET    LAND. 

Paint  the  mist  in  the  dim  below, 

With  porphyry,  pearl  and  chrysoprase. 

On  the  brow  of  the  Apennine, 
Oft  as  amid  the  crowd  I  stand, 

Off  from  the  shore  of  coralline, 
Fades  the  beautiful  Sunset  Land. 

So  my  joys  in  my  dream  of  life, 

Have  faded  out  from  a  rocky  shore, 
And  from  this  shadowy  gyre  of  strife, 

Have  gone  from  me  forevermore. 
Soon  I  shall  follow  them  o'er  a  sea — 

O'er  a  ruby  and  agate  strand- 
Out  to  the  dream  revealed  to  me, 

In  the  beautiful  Sunset  Land. 

There,  in  that  dreamy,  dim  unknown — 
Floating  beyond  the  purple  skies — 

1  shall  gather  the  wild  festoon, 

When  another  sleep  has  kissed  my  eyes. 


THE    SUNSET    LAND.  35 

And  in  the  golden,  shimmering  sheen, 
On  a  sapphire  and  jasper  strand, 

I  shall  wander  with  Magdalen, 
In  the  beautiful  Sunset  Land. 


36 


VANDERLYN. 


OBIIT   MDCCCLII. 

No  tomb  inscribed  with  storied  praise, 

In  thoughts  which  breathe  a  dreamy 

charm, 
Nor  monument,  we  need  upraise 

To  keep  his  memory  ever  warm. 
His  deeds  are  not  resolved  to  dust— 

They  know  no  bitter  ban  of  doom— 
They  live,  and  still  forever  must, 

Though  ages  yield  their  gleam  and  gloom. 

Now  brightly,  through  the  mist  of  time, 
Those  works  appear,  of  brain  and  heart, 


VANDEULYN.  37 

And  glow  in  cycles  more  sublime, 
Around  the  dreamy  brow  of  Art : 

Or,  like  those  pictures  grand  and  old, 
Whose  halos  light  the  path  of  fame, 

They  twine,  in  lambent  rays  of  gold, 
An  aureola  round  his  name. 

Oh !  evermore  that  name  shall  be 

An  astral  in  the  cave  of  mind, 
To  light,  where  hid  in  mystery, 

The  treasures  of  deep  thought  are  shrined  ; 
While,  like  some  foamy  edge  of  cloud, 

Whose  finger  points  the  unknown  sea, 
His  deeds  float  o'er  the  sky  of  years, 

Arid  point  to  immortality. 

He  walked  the  verdant  meads  among, 
And  saw  the  yeoman  bind  the  sheaves — 

He  wandered  where  the  robin  sung, 

While  forests  wept  their  tears  of  leaves; 


48  VANDEKLYN. 

And  over  all  he  saw  a  gleara, 

Like  opal  bathed  in  rubric  dyes ; 

Then  like  an  iris  o'er  his  dream 
Beheld  the  Beautiful  arise. 

He  drank  the  bitter  cup  that  all 

Must  quaff,  who  love  this  dreamy  power- 
He  saw  its  dark-winged  shadows  fall, 

And  limned  them  on  each  fleeting  hour ; 
While  through  the  dimly  pictured  whole, 

The  golden  germ  of  thought  was  shrined. 
Which  saw,  deep  hidden  in  the  soul, 

The  mystery  of  the  Artist  mind. 

He  rhymed  the  melody  of  Art, 

With  mythic  dreams  of  sea  and  wood  ; 

And  'mid  the  ruins  of  his  heart, 
Like  Marius  at  Carthage,  stood. 

But  now,  upon  her  swelling  breast 
Fair  (Jenins  bows  her  beauteous  IK  :nl 


VANDERLYN.  30 

And  mourns,  with  hands  together  pressed — 
The  Raphael  of  the  age  is  dead. 

0  Vanderlyn !  for  thee  no  more 

Shall  gneiss-ribbed  hills,  or  heights  unsought, 
Or  sea-lips,  pressing  on  the  shore, 

E'er  swell  thy  monologue  of  thought. 
But  through  that  arch  divinely  grand, 

Where  peals  the  clarion  voice  of  fame, 
Resounding  over  sea  and  land, 

Shall  echo,  evermore,  thy  name. 


40 


TWO    MAPLES. 


THE  stream  hath  its  tinkling  voices. 
And  the  glebe  its  songs  of  seas  ; 

Hut  the  grandest  of  Nature's  music 
Floats  in  the  harps  of  trees. 

Two  vernal  harps  are  these  Maples, 

Whose  melody  sways  and  swings— 
The  leaves  are  the  mystical  fingers, 
And  the  boughs  are  the  golden  strings. 

Oft  when  the  calm  of  the  twilight, 
In  a  twilight  of  fancy  weaves, 

I  have  wrapt  myself  in  their  music, 
As  they  are  wrapt  in  leaves  ; 


TWO    MAPLES.  41 

And  drinking  from  unseen  goblets, 

Have  found  a  calin  surcease 
From  daily  endeavor  and  longing, 

In  the  crystal  draughts  of  peace. 

Or  have  looked  through  the  leafy  lattice, 
Arid  gazed  on  the  starry  scroll, 

As  often  some  wordless  feeling 
Looks  up  to  the  sky  of  the  soul ! 

In  fervent  noons,  when  the  sunshine 

Fetters  the  languorous  shade, 
Each  baudrol  leaf  seems  a  cloudlet 

Swung  over  a  fairy  glade. 

While  here,  'neath  the  spreading  branches, 

I  read  from  the  bards  sublime, 
Whose  songs  are  like  glittering  banners 

Hung  on  the  Avails  of  Time  : 
4* 


42  TWO    MAPLES. 

And  a  dreamy  feeling  of  sadness, 
Comes  over  my  thoughts  again, 

For  I  see  in  those  grand  old  poems, 
The  woven  threads  of  pain. 

Oft  when  the  crimson  of  autumn, 
Is  crushed  on  the  lips  of  leaves, 

The  purples  and  golds  of  fancies 
The  weary  day  relieves  ; 

And  the  blushing  cheeks  of  these  Maples, 

Like  silent  clouds  appear, 
That  are  floating  a  long  horizon, 

In  the  sunset  of  the  year. 

You  have  smiled  on  me  your  blessings, 
And  taught  me  your  lessons  long, 

But  in  return,  0  Maples, 
I  can  give  you  only  a  song  1 


THE   PALISADES. 


THE  forehead  of  the  Hudson  stands, 

Crowned  with  its  shaggy  locks  of  pines ; 
And  sloping  from  the-  wave-washed  sands, 

The  shore,  the  rocky  brow  confines. 
The  river  wrapt  in  silence  sleeps, 

Swept  by  the  eyelids  of  the  trees  ; 
While  o'er  the  darkly  towering  steeps, 

The  clouds  seem  anchored  argosies. 

Long  have  those  pillared  rocks  reposed, 
Like  some  vast  falchion  in  its  sheath, 

Mute,  with  their  secrets  undisclosed, 

O'er  that  dark  stream  which  rolls  beneath. 


44  THE  PALISADES. 

They  sp'eak  a  language  more  sublime 
Than  words  can  yield  or  fancy  cast — 

The  unknown  whisper  of  all  time — 
The  voiceless  echo  of  the  past. 

Long  have  these  silent  Palisades 

Seemed  phantoms  stalking  on  the  shore, 
To  haunt  the  longing  which  pervades 

The  dreamer's  soul  for  mystic  lore  ; 
But  still  they  yield  not  up  reply, 

They  give  not  us  the  ecstatic 'bliss — 
We  cannot  quaff  the  meaning  high, 

Of  nature's  great  Acropolis. 

But  he  whose  nobler  thoughts  confess, 
The  power  o'ermastcring  of  the  soul, 

Who  revels  in  the  deep  excess, 
Where  fancy's  mists  of  glory  roll, 

Sees  in  this  colonnade  of  hills, 
"  A  rhyme  in  nature's  glad  acclaim — 


THE   PALISADES.  45 

A  meaning  and  a  song,  which  thrills 
Along  its  dark  colossal  frame. 

He  feels  the  aspiring  hills  impart 

A  passion  none  can  e'er  express, 
Which  steals  dream-mantled  from  the  heart, 

In  awe  twin-soul  with  happiness  : 
As  though  some  mystery  of  the  past, 

Which  through  the  lapse  of  years  concealed, 
With  all  its  promptings,  now  at  last, 

By  some  wierd  seer  was  unrevealed. 

Ah,  like  these  looming  Palisades — 

This  altar,  whereon  kneels  the  sky, 
Arising  'mid  the  deepening  shades, 

In  all  its  vague  immensity — 
O  ever  like  this,  while  are  wrought 

The  clouds  of  dreams  which  crown  the  whole. 
May  rise  the  Palisades  of  thought, 

From  out  the  river  of  the  soul. 


46  THE    PALISADES. 

Like  water  dripping  in  a  cave, 

Too  oft  our  thoughts  in  golden  rain, 
Fall  in  our  cave-like  hearts,  and  save 

Their  pathway,  naught  is  found  again. 
0  speed  the  time  in  broadening  streams, 

When  like  these  hills  which  prop  the  skies, 
In  every  soul,  majestic  dreams 

Of  innate  beauty  shall  arise. 

Long  have  these  silent  Palisades, 

When  twilights'  purple  dun,  has  hurled 
Its  dappled  mantle  down  the  glades, 

Seemed  shadows  of  a  giant  world ! 
Ah,  in  our  dreams  these  hills  are  wrought, 

In  many  a  gyre  of  flight  sublime, 
To  pure,  immortal  harps  of  thought, 

Hung  on  the  willow  trees  of  time. 

0  towering,  castellated  hills! 

You  fill  the  heart  with  Uolv  calm, 


THE  PALISADES.  47 

And  breathe,  like  banks  of  daffodils, 
Ambrosial  moments,  dripping  balm! 

While  round  thy  couch  in  endless  charms 
The  sunset  curtains  fall  aside  ; 

0  river  1  in  thy  liquid  arms, 
Is  clasped  thy  peerless,  cloud-veiled  bride. 

Long  have  these  silent  Palisades, 

Against  the  midnight's  starry  breast, 
Wrapped  in  their  clinging  robe  of  shades, 

Reposed  in  dark,  eternal  rest. 
And  where  the  silver  moonlight  falls, 

Before  those  stately  ramparts  driven, 
Tlie  grim,  majestic  citadels, 

Seem  like  the  battlements  of  heaven. 

0  moonlight  in  the  Palisades! 

The  sloping  shore — the  fane-like  steep, 
And  river  glistening  down  the  glades, 

Are  clasped  by  lambent  arms  in  sleep. 


48  THE   PALISADES. 

The  round  moon  seems  a  fount  of  light, 
Whose  waters  rise  in  crystal  rills, 

Tinkling  with  silence,  o'er  the  bright — 
The  silver  gardens  of  the  hills. 

Amid  the  emerald-mottled  glades, 

Where  nights'  fair  Peri's  glance  has  gleamed. 
Oft  have  these  silent  Palisades, 

Like  some  rock-worded  idyl  seemed. 
And  now  beneath,  meandering  by, 

The  dark  tide  seeks  its  goal  afar, 
And  seems  a  river  paved  with  sky, 

Whose  every  wave  upheaves  a  star. 

Like  some  old  cloister,  dark  and  grand, 
Whose  beauties  with  its  age  increase, 

Seem  these  immortal  hills,  which  stand, 
Bathe  i  in  the  litanies  of  peace! 

Long  have  they,  dreamy  Palisades, 
By  naught  save  variant  breezes  trod. 


THE  PALISADES.  49 

Ascended  from  the  sloping  glades, 
Like  incense  rising  up  to  God. 

0  thus,  in  many  a  silent  mind, 

Vague  heights  of  deeper  feeling  rise, 
With  golden  longings  intertwined, 

Which  this  life  never  satisfies. 
But  ever  shall  this  incense  loom, 

Where  dreams  their  amber  waters  roll ; 
And  hearts  in  cycles  'mid  the  gloom, 

Shall  swing  like  censers  in  the  soul. 

Ah,  still   these  ridgy  Palisades, 

Which  Sphinx-like,  rear  their  brows  of  stor  t 
Survive  the  myriad  decades 

Of  ages,  down  the  dim  past  flown. 
But  yet  the  hoarded  years  must  bow, 

And  pass  like  waves  upon  a  sea, 
Before  these  towering  hills,   which  now 

Are  in  their  own  eternity. 
6 


50  THE   PALISADES. 

The  wordless  Pyramids,  upon 

The  desert,  kneeling  down  to  pray, 
And  the  dead,  pathetic  Parthenon, 

Must  with  the  future  pass  away ; 
But  these,  the  eternal  God-made  hills, 

Whose  strong  foundations  stand  secure 
Where  iron  decay  no  use  fulfills, 

0,  these  shall  evermore  endure ! 

And  I,  like  years,  shall  pass  away  ; 

But  if  my  dust  rest  'mid  the  glades, 
From  whence  shall  spring  from  fulsome  clay. 

A  violet  in  the  Palisades ; 
Then  unto  life  shall  I  have  borne, 

A  type  of  that  I  worshiped  well- 
Then  not  in  vain,  shall  I  have  worn 

For  nature,  my  frail  Scallop-shell. 


51 


DREAMLAND. 


EIDOLON  is  the  king, 

Hear  his  starry  gittern  ring — 

How  its  golden  cadence  seems 

Like  the  sound  of  bells  in  dreams. 

Hark!  the  voice  comes  wand'ring  back, 

Round  the  brazen  Zodiac — 

Dashing  like  the  waves  of  seas, 

O'er  the  silver  Hebrides. 

Borne  on  angel-winged  delight, 

Come  the  voices  of  the  night — 


52  DREAMLAND. 

Voices  from  the  land  of  dreams. 
Ultimate  that  Aiden  gleams, 
Like  the  worlds  of  thought  which  roll, 
Through  the  heavens  of  the  soul. 


O'er  the  river  of  the  night, 
Is  an  amber  bridge  of  light ; 
Silently  it  seems  to  stand, 
Leading  to  a  silent  land — 
Leading  from  the  midnight  shore, 
To  the  dim  forevermore. 
As  the  moon-rise  on  the  sea, 
Leaves  a  path  of  mystery, 
Pendant  o'er  the  wat'ry  hush, 
Like  the  morning's  primal  blush, 
Dashed  upon  the  cheek  of  night ; 
So  this  filmy  bridge  of  light, 
O'er  a  waveless,  unknown  deep, 
Stretcheth  from  the  shores  of  sleep- 


DREAMLAND.  53 

From  dank  tarns  and  fetid  streams, 
To  the  sylphid  land  of  dreams. 

Peering  wildly  into  night, 
Gaze  I  from  the  bridge  of  thought : 
Beautiful  transmuted  light, 
In  mosaic  fancies  wrought. 
Where  that  bridge  doth  rest  on  sleep, 
Dreams  their  ceaseless  vigils  keep — 
Dreams  perchance  of  infant  years. 
Here  the  bony  ghoul  appears, 
And  with  inessential  hand, 
Pointeth  to  the  distant  land — 
To  the  Morning  Land  of  Dreams. 
Here  the  fire-eyed  python  gleams. 
Saurians,  through  the  murky  brake, 
Wander  with  the  slimy  snake. 
Here  the  cicale  wings,  and  sees 
All  the  tops  of  upas  trees 

Rise  like  billows  in  the  breeze. 
'•* 


54  DREAMLAND. 

Effete,  haunted,  dark  and  deep, 
Is  the  silent  land  of  sleep. 


Slowly  o'er  the  bridge  I  tend- 
Now  no  livid  clouds  impend, 
From  the  dim  perennial  morn. 
On  the  concave's  verge  are  born, 
Jasper  splendors,  bearing  thence, 
Swathed  in  gold  magnificence, 
O'er  the  caverns  of  the  night, 
Gleamy,  dewy  drops  of  light. 
Now  an  oval  glow  on  high, 
Presses  'gainst  the  scroll  of  sky, 
Like  the  signet  ring  of  God. 
Hills  of  thought  and  dreams,  untrod, 
Rise  before  the  startled  view. 
Golden  glories  glow  anew. 
Trembling  on  the  bridge  I  stand, 
Gazing  o'er  the  Morning  Land. 


DREAMLAND.  55 

Music  oars  along  the  breeze, 
Like  the  sounds  of  streams  and  trees, 
Woven  into  melodies. 
Rich  aromas  fill  the  air  ; 
And  the  dreamy  everywhere, 
Seems,  amid  the  lucent  shoals, 
Heaven  for  the  flowrets  souls. 
Here  immortal  beauties  dwell. 
Here  ten  thousand  sunsets  fell, 
Which  before  the  mythic  sun, 
Rose  and  melted  into  one. 

In  this  halcyon  land  of  bliss, 
Stands  a  vast  Metropolis. 
Grandly  gleam  the  argent  fanes, 
From  the  far,  diurnal  plains. 
Minaret  and  turret  high, 
Tower  against  the  topaz  sky, 
Over  wall  and  bubbling  dome. 
Here  no  ghost  or  sullen  gnome, 


56  DUE  A  ML  AND. 

Ever  from  Erebus  comes. 
Here  forever  over  us, 
Float  the  multitudinous 
Thoughts  and  fancies  of  our  lives, 
Here  the  balmy  distance  gyves, 
With  embroideries  of  hills, 
All  the  gleam  of  molten  rills. 
Here  the  day  is  never  done — 
'Tis  the  Eldorado  vast, 
Of  the  future  and  the  past — 
'Tis  an  everlasting  sun. 


BURNS. 


ON  BEING  PRESENTED  WITH  A  LEAF' FROM  THE 
BRIGS  OF  AYR. 

A  NAME  seems  graven  on  this  leaf, 

To  which  our  memory  fondly  turns — 
A  name  that  brings  a  balm  to  grief — 
The  name  of  Robert  Burns. 

Each  leaf  is  vocal  with  his  praise, 

Round  Scotland's  storied  Brigs  of  Ayr — 
0  home  of  song! — "the  banks  and  braes 
0'  bonnie  Doon"  are  there. 


58  BURNS. 

And  there,  like  morning's  blush  which  played 

« 
On  cheeks  of  mountains  vast  and  tall, 

His  peerless  Highland  Mary  strayed 
Around   Montgomery's  wall. 

And  there  the  Cotter  still  at  eve, 

Oft  bows  before  his  humble  shrine  ; 
And  still  his  rustic  songs  receive, 
The  crown  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

There  Logan  rolls  its  silver  tide — 

There  winds  the  wooded  Cragie-burn— 
There  "Evan  mingles  with  the  Clyde," 
And  there  is  Dumfries'  urn. 


All  cling  around  the  poet's  name, 

Like  wreaths  about  the  sculptured  bust ; 
And  grow  immortal  with  his  fame, 
Which  moulders  not  to  dust. 


BURNS.  59 

Wo  only  know  his  noble  deeds — 

The  good  by  fur  out-stripped  the  ill— 
His  pride  o'er-mastering,  sowed  the  seeds 
That  triumphed  over  will. 

He  saw*along  the  dreamy  skies, 
And  over  every  path  he  trod, 
An  Unknown  Sentiment  arise, 
And  knew  that  it  was  God. 

To  him  the  fields  new  beauties  wore, 

New  rays  round  Woman's  pathway  twined  ; 
While  in  his  open  heart  he  bore 
A  love  for  all  mankind. 

There  have  been  nobler  themes  than  his, 

Arid  grander  strains  of  that  high  art, 
Which  but  the  creed  of  nature  is — 
The  mirror  of  the  heart. 


60  BURNS. 

But  ah!  few  over  touched  the  strings 

He  woke  where  depths  of  feeling  roll — 
Where  round  our  every  fancy  clings 
The  rhythm  of  the  soul. 

How  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled  " 

Brings  deep  emotions  to  the  tongue ! 
What  memories  start  the  tears  unshed, 
When  Devons  song  is  sung! 

His  is  no  idle  breath  of  fame  : 

And  more  than  Highland  hearts  shall  raise 
Round  the  great  glory  of  his  name, 
The  meed  of  noble  praise. 

O'er  Scotland's  sacred  hills  and  streams, 

0,er  Summer  dell  and  balmy  plain, 
Which  float  our  memory  haunted  dreams, 
Flis  songs  arc  lienrd  ag.-nn. 


UUBNS.  61 


And  e'en  the  Mountain  Daisies  rear 
Ambrosial  praise  in  flowery  urns, 
And  write  on  every  hillside  here, 
The  name  of  Robert  Burns. 


62 


THE   CATSKILLS. 


THE  mountains  overhung  with  gold, 

In  piled  luxuriance  rim  the  view, 
And  seem  in  many  an  azure  fold, 

Like  shadows  in  a  lake  of  blue. 
They  float  through  wavy  gloom  and  glare, 

They  hang  like  banners  bright  and  free, 
And  tremble  in  the  depths  of  air, 

Along  the  shoreless,  sunset  sea. 

O,  in  the  Indian-summer  haze, 

They  seem  some  long,  dim  reach  of  mist, 
Along  the  river's  liquid  ways, 

Lit  up  with  pearl  and  amethyst. 


THE   CATSKILLS.  63 

Or,  swathed  in  ambient  glow  and  green, 
When  golden  glories  crown  the  skies, 

They  seem  beneath  the  daedal  sheen, 
The  silent  gates  of  Paradise. 

0  mountains,  home  of  cliff  and  pine  ; 

Warriors  of  cloud-hosts  drifting  byl 
The  distance  paints, in  light  divine, 

Your  curving  peaks  against  the  sky — 
The  distance,  ripe  with  glories  swung 

O'er  vapors  in  a  shower  of  gold, 
Seems  like  some  fadeless  garden,  hung 

In  bright  carnations  o'er  the  world. 

All,  in  the  conscious  twilight  hush, 

When  shadows  drink  the  dells  of  light, 

The  mountains,  in  the  flickering  flush, 
Seem  pathless  bridges  o'er  the  night. 

Aye  me!  0,  symbols  of  a  dream, 

Your  peaks,  like  death,  are  hung  between 


64  THE   CATSKILLS. 

The  dawns  which  shall  bo  and  which  seem, 
And  part  the  dim  unseen  and  seen. 

0  hills,  I  know  your  glades  and  dells, 
And  all  your  crystal  pools,  that  lie 

Between  the  bordering  asphodels, 
Each  image-paven  with  a  sky. 

1  know  the  rifts  of  clouds  that  sail 

The  waveless  sea  of  sky,  and  fall 
Where  most  your  rugged  peaks  prevail, 
Like  banners  round  a  castle  wall. 

O  hills,  the  distance  robes  anew, 

Your  forms  which  rise  in  azure  dun, 
And  folds  around  your  hazy  blue 

The  golden  raiment  of  the  sun. 
0,  thus  each  noble  thought  and  deed, 

Rising  from  error's  realm  of  night, 
Shall  stand,  from  all  her  bondage  freed, 

Clad  in  immortal  robes  of  light. 


THE   CATSKILLS.  65 

The  earth  is  but  a  censer,  swung 

Before  the  lurid  throne  of  day  ; 
And  mist,  about  the  mountains  hung, 

Is  balmy  incense  fumed  away. 
The  streamlets,  in  the  vale  below, 

Diverge  beside  an  emerald  shore, 
And  choose  new  courses  in  their  flow, 

Like  lives  that  part  and  meet  no  more. 

The  boscage  o'er  the  quiet  dells, 

Inwoven  with  its  ivy  woof, 
'Neath  which  eternal  twilight  dwells, 

Seems  like  a  fairy  palace  roof. 
A  brooklet's  waters  rippling  past, 

The  vine-shaped  hillside  twine  along, 
And  change  to  silver' lakes  at  last, 

Like  some  bright  fancy  changed  to  song. 

0  mountains,  in  the  summer  dawns, 

When  lips  of  light  and  dew  have  met, 
6* 


66  THE   CATSKILLS. 

I  gather  in  your  pathless  lawns 
The  wind-flower  and  the  violet. 

And,  dreaming  dreams  within  a  dream, 
I  know  the  daisies  growing  high, 

To  you  of  azure  robed  in  gleam, 
Are  what  the  stars  are  to  the  sky. 

0  hills,  I  know  the  chasm  wide, 

And  copse  wherein  comes  sparkling  up 
The  waters  of  a  tiny  tide — 
A  fay  within  a  lily's  cup. 

1  know  your  varied  forms  which  rise, 

In  wavy  slopes,  whose  trackless  way 
Mounts  upward  to  the  summer  skies, 
And  seems  like  dreamland  seen  by  day. 

* 

And  I,  when  years  have  passed,  shall  come 
Like  some  worn  pilgrim  to  a  shrine, 

And  view  once  more  the  mountain  home 
Of  beetling  peak  and  towering  pine; 


THE    CATSKILLS,  67 

And  see  the  hills,  impearled  with  dew, 
Which  all  the  pansy  nooks  infold, 

Again  arise  along  the  view — 

A  moveless  pageant  robed  in  gold. 

Then  shall  the  streamlet  in  the  dell, 
In  whose  clear  lymph  the  shade  is  cast 

Of  many  a  floweret's  crimson  bell, 
Be  but  a  memory  of  the  past. 

Then  shall  I,  in  the  balmy  glade 

Which  dwells  o'erarched  with  boughs  and 
sky, 

Tread  where  in  vanished  hours  I  strayed, 

And  wake  once  more  the  days  gone  by. 

But  I  shall  go  to  rest — and  when 
This  fleeting  dream  of  life  is  o'er, 

Still  to  the  changing  race  of  men 
These  hills  shall  stand  forevermore. 


68  THE    CATSKILLS. 

Still  shall  the  mountains  which  arise, 
Though  wo  may  be  no  more,  alas ! 

Loom  upward  to  the  trackless  skies, 
And  mock  the  ages  as  they  pass. 


09 


AMONG     THE     FLOWERS. 


IN  royal  dawns,  alone  I  tread 

By  pebbled  brook,  and  shining  strand, 
By  vernal  meadow,  lone  woodland, 

Where  queenly  flowerets,  from  a  bed 
Of  dewy  glory,  rise  to  greet 
The  morn  with  golden-sandaled  feet ; 

And,  with  the  day-sea  overhead, 
I  watch  the  ships  of  shimmer  meet. 

Ah,  rich  with  cinnamon  and  palm, 
My  dreams  go  out  to  eastern  rooms — 
To  orange  groves,  whose  ceaseless  blooms, 

Are  swaying  in  eternal  balm  ; 


70  AMONG   THE   FLOWERS. 

t 

But  yet  the  daisies  that  I  see, 
Bring  back  my  truant  dreams  to  me : 
An  island  in  a  lake  of  calm,  » 

Is  every  petaled  brilliancy. 

Each  pansy  is  a  pure  delight, 

Torn  from  some  heart,  and  given  form ; 

And  beckons  on  the  dewy  morn, 
Swayed  in  the  shadow-breath  of  night. 

And  here,  beneath  the  coppice  shade, 

A  hushed,  acacia  lake  is  laid, 
Whose  waves  of  petals,  capped  with  light, 

Throb  up  the  shore-like  everglade. 

With  saddened  thoughts,  I  wander  by 
A  sloping  glen,  whose  ways  I  know 
Are  strown  with  wreaths  of  jasper  glow — 

An  aisled  cathedral,  broad  and  high, 
Where,  like  an  organ's  trembling  word, 
The  melodies  of  every  bird, 


AMONG    THE    FLOWERS.  71 

In  golden  notes  float  up  the  sky — 
Sweet  rapture,  not  from  me  deferred. 

Ah  me,  when  I  shall  be  no  more, 

I  crave  that  here  my  couch  be  made, 
Beneath  the  turf,  where  sheen  and  shade 

Shall  surge  the  bright,  dew-paven  shore — 
Where  dawn,  the  gauzy  breath  of  day, 
Shall  light  this  overbraided  way, 

And  sail  its  sea  of  flowerets  o'er, 
As  zephyrs  sail  the  sea  of  May. 

Here  shall  each  robin  seem  a  rose, 

Which  gathers  life  from  fields  of  air ; 

With  gloom  for  streamlets  ever  fair, 
And  dreamy  dells  that  woo  repose, 

Beside  the  hills — a  kingly  throng  ; 

While  warbled  strains  shall  float  along, 
Where  light  with  beauty  overflows, 

And  be  but  fragrance  changed  to  song. 


72  AMONG    THE    FLOWERS. 

Here  shall  the  pale  narcissus,  hung 

Where  lilac-blooms  perfume  its  bowers, 
Be  but  the  ray  less  dawn  of  flowers, 

In  varied  shades  of  opal,  swung 
Above  a  tiny,  bluebell  hill ; 
Whose  valley  lieth  deep  and  still, 

The  emerald  skies  of  leaves  among, 
Which  verge  the  crystal  of  the  rill. 

I  crave  that  here  my  couch  be  made, 
For  here  is  nature's  reign  supreme  ; 
And  here  the  morning-tinted  stream. 

Which  eddies^  through  the  osier  glade, 
Is  like  a  memory  that  I  know — 

t 

A  sainted  memory,  pure  as  snow 
Upon  the  breasts  of  wild-flowers  laid, 
Which  blossomed  where  the  violets  blow. 

The  fruit  is  springing  from  the  seeds — 
I  know  what,  goal  my  dreams  have  won  — 


AMONG    THE    FLOWERS.  73 

And  pride,  which  bows  itself  to  none, 
Grew  o'er  my  hidden  griefs,  like  weeds. 

Errors  are  titled  truths — the  hours 

Quaffed  from  the  chalice,  Time,  are  ours 
Alone,  with  that  dim  path,  which  leads 

To  quiet  rest  beneath  the  flowers. 


74 


ISAURE. 

AT  the  tryst  near  the  broken  stile, 
Holding  her  hand  in  mine,  I  said, 
Not  in  the  dells  of  shade  I  tread, 

Not  in  the  full-blown  daisy's  smile, 

Not  in  the  twilight  calm  and  gray, 

I  see  the  beauty  that  I  adore ; 
But  in  the  summer  of  your  eyes, 
Where  the  billows  of  soul  arise, 

Gleaming  upon  their  tender  shore, 

I  clasp  the  dreams  of  endless  May. 

Beauty  dwelleth  in  soul  alone — 

As  fruit  and  frondage,  spice  and  palm, 
Dwell  but  in  fervent  isles  of  balm— 

Yours  to  me  is  the  central  throne : 
Lesser  glorieb  bow  down  to  thcc ; 


ISAURE.  75 

Here  the  lake,  like  a  silver  vail, 
Ripples  between  the  fallow  meads, 
Islanded  oft  with  drooping  reeds — 

But  this  is  of  the  ships  that  sail, 
Brightly,  out  to  a  beautiful  sea. 

Your  soul  is  the  beautiful  sea, 

With  coral  isles  of  golden  dreams, 

And  many  a  mystic  thought  which  seems 

Like  some  shadowy  cave  to  me, 

Leading  down  from  a  pearly  vale. 

Here  the  moon,  in  a  downy  cloud, 
Seems  like  a  bee  in  an  asphodel, 
Whose  foamy  petals  sink  and  swell 

Before  each  languid  zephyr  bowed, 

Trembling  beneath  its  ornate  mail. 

And  here  the  mellow  lips  of  light 

Kiss  the  sweet  foreheads  of  the  leaves, 
While  some  melodious  night-bird  weaves 


76  ISAURK. 

% 

Its  song  along  its  trackless  flight, 

Like  life — a  swallow-flight  of  time  : 
But  dreams  were  naught  were  thou  riot  here 
They  are  the  rivers  of  the  sea — 
The  sapphire  paths  that  lead  to  thee, 
Through  lawny  lands  I  hold  most  dear, 
By  thy  soul-beauty  made  sublime. 

Isaure,  as  some  cape  of  cloud 

Grows  brighter  with  the  birth  of  day, 

So  all  my  fancies  grow  to  May, 
Before  thy  purer  presence  bowed, 

Which  seems  a  ceaseless  dawn  to  me ; 
And  our  lone  hearts  still  float  in  dreams, 

Like  leaves  in  odors  rustling  fair, 

Which  drift  along  the  rosy  air, 
Like  sprays  of  woodbine,  down  the  streams 
That  widen  to  the  summer  sea. 


77 


OCTOBER    RAIN. 


OCTOBER  skies  are  pale  and  sere  ; 

The  ashen  clouds  are  grim  and  chill- 
Like  ghostly  mourners  at  a  bier, 

They  kneel  upon  the  distant  hill. 
Like  leaves  their  freight  goes  hastening  by  ; 

The  cold  wind  shouts  in  dizzy  pain  : 
We  know  that  as  the  moments  fly, 

The  month  is  dying  in  the  rain. 

But  through  a  tattered  woof  of  cloud, 

The  sunlight  slants  a  living  glow, 
Which,  sparkling  round  the  misty  shroud, 

Lights  up  the  grainless  fields  below. 

7* 


78  OCTOBER     RAIX. 

The  dead  leaves  launched  in  gusts  go  by ; 

But  ah!  in  ruby  drops  divine, 
The  upturned  goblet  of  the  sky, 

Pours  forth  the  rain  like  golden  wine. 

The  dahlia,  last  of  all  her  race, 

Puts  out  her  lips  to  quaff  the  bliss, 
As  some  clear  lake  with  tender  grace 

Receives  the  moonlight's  silver  kiss. 
The  vernal  crucible  of  hills, 

Wherein  the  gold  of  May  was  laid, 
Is  rimmed  with  wild  flowers  round  the  rills, 

In  pearly  drops  of  rain  arrayed. 

The  mountains  in  the  dewy  breath, 
Against  a  breast  of  dark  cloud  lie, 

Which  bends  above  them,  as  in  death, 
The  weeping  mistress  of  the  sky! 

While  here  the  sunlight's  crimson  bars, 
Begem  the  fields  in  amber  crowds ; 


OCTOBEU    RAIN.  79 

The  starlight  is  the  soul  of  stars ; 
And  0,  the  rain  is  soul  of  clouds. 

The  bright  red  berries  gleaming,  cling 

Above  green  dells  of  fairy  birth, 
And  seem  like  twinkling  stars  that  swing 

Above  the  emerald  hills  of  earth. 
I  see  them  through  the  mist  and  rain — 

The  mountains  and  the  cloud}7  sky ; 
But  dream  the  dead  past  o'er  again — 

We  are  alone,  my  soul  and  I. 

It  whispers  me  in  vague  surmise, 

Some  subtle  meaning  to  impart, 
That  from  the  mind's  o'er-arching  skies, 

The  cold  rain  falleth  on  the  heart. 
Our  memories  like  the  wind  sweep  by  ; 

But  ah!  we  weep  them  not  in  vain-  — 
Nor  those  who  in  their  last  sleep  lie  ; 

For  tears  are  but  October  Rain. 


80  OCTOBER     RAIN. 

As  through  some  window  stained  with  gold, 

Which  lights  the  weary,  kneeling  crowd, 
In  some  cathedral,  grand  and  old, 

I  see  the  sunlight  through  the  cloud. 
And  now  to  tell  that  Spring  was  here, 

Alone  the  luscious  fruits  remain, 
Which  droop  from  branches  crisp  and  sere, 

Adorned  with  drops  of  golden  rain. 

My  life  has  been  a  rainy  day, 

•     In  which  some  sapphire  sunlight  shone ; 

But  that  too  soon  has  passed  away, 

And  left  me  to  the  storm  alone. 
It  matters  not — each  cloud  foretells 

Some  brighter  hours  will  come  again, 
And  memory  seems  a  harp,  which  swells 

With  strains  of  sad,  October  Rain. 


81 


MEADOW   MIST. 


THROUGH  fields  of  sparry  grass  and  grain, 

When  dawns  their  misty  garments  bring, 
I  walk  and  pluck  the  flowers  again — 

The  joyous  syllables  of  Spring. 
Now  are  the  regal  daisy  bowers, 

By  skies  of  folded  vapor  kissed  ; 
Creation  weeps  in  golden  showers, 

But  smileth  through  her  tears  in  mist. 

The  forest,  in  the  distance,  seems 
A.  land  where  balmy  winds  abound, 

Which  float  like  music  heard  in  dreams, 
That  dies  upon  the  breast  of  sound  ; 


82  MEADOW    MIST. 

The  jasper  rivers  of  the  sun, 

The  lotus  sprays  of  mist  drift  o'er, 

And,  mottled  with  vermilion  dun, 
Are  stranded  on  this  meadow  shore. 

As  some  clear  moon  hangs  o'er  a  lake, 

Glassed  in  its  waters  deep  and  cool, 
A  silver  lily  near  the  brake, 

Is  pictured  in  an  elfin  pool- 
So  in  a  leaf- waved  lake  of  dew, 

By  shores  of  endless  morning  kissed, 
The  vapor's  image  wavers  through, 

And  seems  like  moonlight  fumed  in  mist. 

Upon  a  laurel  shore  remains 

The  daisy,  like  a  sounding  shell ; 

While  here,  the  blue-eyed  gentian  reigns, 
Queen  floweret  of  a  palace  dell. 

Yet  over  all  the  meadows  fair, 
The  wavy  sheens  of  vapor  lie ; 


MEADOW    MIST.  83 

And  seem  like  locks  of  amber  hair, 
Swept  down  the  forehead  of  the  sky. 

And  so  I  pass,  when  breaks  the  day, 

Along  the  meads  with  glory  rife, 
And  dream  the  lucent  morn  away, 

As  I  have  dreamed  the  morn  of  life. 
Not  all  in  gold  and  amethyst, 

Are  even  summer  days  enshrined : 
My  heart  hath  had  its  share  of  mist — 

The  sadness  of  a  darkened  mind. 

All  things  find  type  in  life  or  death: 

The  landscape  of  the  past  I  see  ; 
While  in  the  thought,  this  skyey  breath, 

Becomes  the  mist  of  memory. 
And  dreaming,  down  by  mere  and  shoal, 

I  know — all  truth  some  sadness  yields — 
As  sorrow  falls  upon  the  soul, 

So  vapor  falleth  on  the  fields. 


84 


MY   PALACE. 


IN  thoughts'  dominions,  halo-crowned, 

I  saw  a  Palace  broad  and  high : 
No  streams  of  liquid  moonlight  round — 

No  pansies  formed  of  azure  sky. 
But  all  of  crystal  glare  and  shade, 

And  snowy  dells  of  sheen  were  there, 
Irnpearling  with  its  glowing  glade, 

My  royal  Palace  in  the  air ! 

The  shadowy-penciled  vales  and  hills, 
Of  space  and  depth  and  dazzling  height, 

Lie  lucent  in  the  blazoned  rills, 
Which  empty  in  u  bay  of  light. 


MY     PALACE.  85 

I  see  above  a  mount,  whose  dun 

Seems  shade  and  glory  mingled  there  ; 

The  amber-crowned  king-seraph,  sun, 
With  pinion  winged  in  golden  air! 

And  ah,  this  mountain  evermore, 

White-robed  with  snow,  in  its  high  place, 
Hath  seemed  upon  the  mighty  shore, 

A  billow  from  the  sea  of  space. 
Above  the  wave-mount's  icy  leas — 

Before  the  endless  sunset  skies, 
With  jacinth  architrave  and  frieze 

I  see  my  royal  Palace  rise. 

While  up  the  battlemented  wall, 
The  silken  banners  flaunt  and  flare, 

O'er  sapphire  tower  and  turret  tall — 
Bright  vapors  on  the  fane  of  air. 

Turkois,  agate  and  chrysoprase, 

Are  irieed  round  the  open  door  ; 

8 


86  MY     PALACE. 

Through  which  with  songs  of  other  days, 
The  winged  Hours  pass  forevermore. 

• 

The  rooms  within  are  fair  to  see, 

By  tender  gales  of  odor  fanned, 
Greek-lined  with  niche  and  filigree, 

And  hung  with  woofs  of  Samarcand. 
The  pink-hued  radiance  crushed  to  shape, 

We  call  the  rose,  is  vased  around; 
While  from  some  far  off  mountain  cape, 

The  zephyrs  wake  the  sylph  of  sound. 

And  she  in  whose  dear  eyes  and  mien 

I  see  the  halo  from  her  heart, 
Of  all  my  Palace  is  the  queen, 

And  of  its  beauty  forms  a  part. 
She,  languorous  with  musk  and  bloom, 

Reclines  where  tinkling  fountains  pour, 
Or  wander*  through  the  damasked  room, 

Along  the  velvet-tutted  floor, 


MY    PALACE.  87 

• 

Her  fancies  are  a  flower,  whose  green. 

Dark  stem  of  thought,  the  bulb  thought  meets; 
And  she  before  the  conscious  sheen, 

Is  queen-bee  in  a  dell  of  sweets. 
She  rests  on  cushions  wrought  with  sprays, 

And  revels  in  the  sunset  beams : 
The  golden  circle  of  her  days, 

Is  made  ideal  in  her  dreams. 

The  hours  are  mists  which  float  away : 

She  views  where  floods  of  ruby  run, 
The  cloud-tinged  opal  of  the  day, 

Red-hearted  with  the  lambent  sun. 
But  when  she  sleeps,  alas,  I  see 

The  vague  ghosts  clothed  in  shade  go  by ; 
And  beckoning  shadowy  hands  to  me, 

They  pass  the  sleeper  with  a  sigh. 

0  Palace  on  the  hills  of  air! 

I  see  each  tower  and  turret  shine 


88  MY     PALACE. 

And  glitter,  with  its  vestal  glare 
Of  chrysolite  and  almandine. 

But  ah,  beneath  the  gleaming  fane, 
Unseen,  and  lost  to  human  eyes, 

Dead  forms  in  vaulted  tombs  remain, 
From  which  the  flitting  ghosts  arise. 

The  soul's  the  Palace  of  the  dream, 

In  jasper  walls  of  fancy  wrought, 
Before  the  sad  past's  sunset  gleam, 

Upon  the  lumined  hills  of  thought. 
And  oft  the  shadowy  memories  start, 

And  tremble  in  the  mystic  air, 
Arising  from  the  vaulted  heart — 

The  ghosts  of  dead  hopes  buried  there. 


AT   THE    WATERFALL. 


THE  shore-lips  of  this  odorous  vale — 
By  liquid  cadence  fringed  with  calm, 

Which  woos  through  fields  the  scented  gale- 
Are  parted  in  the  dells  of  balm, 
And  tremble  with  a  worldless  psalm, 

Whose  strains  above  the  hush  prevail. 

The  murmur  of  the  Waterfall — 

The  hum  of  lily-shrouded  bee, 
And  throstle's  honey-throated  call, 

Change  all  the  air  to  melody; 

While  wave-like  in  the  mystic  sea, 

Arise  the  mountains  vague  and  tall. 
8* 


90  AT   THE    WATERFALL. 

And  now  beside  the  endless  pour — 

Where  nature's  life-blood,  from  her  heart 

Of  throbbing  emerald,  runneth  o'er — 
I  watch  the  ripples,  as  they  start 
Toward  the  brink,  and  there  depart ; 

0  life !  thy  type  forevermore. 

1  see  the  crystal  falls  array 

The  leaves  like  seraphim,  with  wings 
Of  dewy  lace,  from  whorls  of  spray  ; 
And  know  the  cataract  now  swings, 
A  curtain,  held  with  sunbeam  rings, 
Across  the  temple  of  the  day. 

And  where  upon  the  moss-crowned  height. 

The  watery  vesture  of  the  dell,     - 
Sweeps  down  and  mingles  with  the  light, 

The  sapphires  of  an  iris  dwell, 

And  seem  an  arch  of  asphodel, 
Where  some  king  glow-worm  passeth,  bright. 


AT   THE    WATERFALL.  91 

So  o'er  each  heart  doth  rise  elate, 
The  rainbow  of  some  fond  desire  ; 

And  we,  frail  buffeters  of  fate, 
Toward  the  dream  alone  aspire, 
But  find  that  as  we  struggle  higher, 

Tis  nobler  to  be  good  than  great. 

But  here  beneath  the  dash  and  roar, 

Where  eddies  circle  in  a  bay, 
White-breasted  lilies  near  the  shore, 

Waste  their  pure  snow  upon  the  spray ; 

The  passion  of  whose  lips,  arrays 
Each  flower  with  gems  of  madrepore. 

• 

And  here  the  amorous  arms  of  sheen, 

Clasp  their  sweet  presence  round  a  cress, 

Which  sinks  into  them,  rich  with  greon, 
And  faints  of  its  dear  happiness : 
While  like  some  moonlight's  silver  tress, 

The  sunlit  Waterfall  is  seen. 


92  AT   THE   WATERFALL. 

In  swirls  the  downy  mists  exhale, 
Like  fragrance  from  a  dying  rose, 

And  o'er  the  pearly  falls  prevail, 

To  meet  the  balmy  breath  that  blows 
The  wild  flowers  from  their  soft  repose, 

To  tremble  in  the  tender  gale. 

O  haste  the  years  which  still  remain, 
When  like  these  vapors  which  arise, 

And  float  in  orient  o'er  the  plain 
Beneath  the  azure  of  the  skies, 
This  life  in  robes  of  royal  dyes, 

Shall  to  some  greater  good  attain. 

Lo,  nature  is  for  one  and  all  ; 

Her  language  whispers  in  a  leaf— 
The  stars — the  sun — a  mountain  tall— 

The  flowers — or  in  a  ripened  sheaf  ; 

And  a  whole  tome  of  true  belief, 
Dwells  even  in  a  Waterfall. 


•J3 


MY   HARP. 


A  silence  like  a  silver  chain, 

Still  o'er  my  cherished  harp  is  cast. 
I  seek  the  urn  of  time  again 

Which  holds  the  ashes  of  the  past. 
One  chord  is  severed  on  my  lyre, 

With  fairy  utterance  once  rife — 
One  chord  which  woke  a  pure  desire, 

Is  broken  on  the  lyre  of  life. 

A  gentle  hand  which  long  ago 
Was  folded  on  a  pulseless  breast, 

Freed  the  bird  music,  wild  and  slow, 
That  fluttered  o'er  this  harp  for  rest. 


94  MY    HARP. 

But  through  the  sad  past,  dim  and  far, 
A  face  shines  out  from  wreath  and  curl, 

And  bends  above  me  like  a  star — 
Gleam-winged  Astarte  clad  in  pearl. 

The  mystic  odor  of  her  eyes 

Oft  fanned  my  soul  with  honey  balm, 
As  'neath  the  great  harp  of  the  skies, 

We  drifted  o'er  a  lake  of  calm. 
We  sailed  across  the  night,  and  she 

Woke  from  her  lyre  its  strains  divine  ; 
And  bending  with  her  lips  o'er  me 

Their  purple  cadence  fell  on  mine. 

She  called  all  flowers  the  petaled  notes 
Of  lost  strains  in  a  perfume  choir, 

Whose  sound  in  rarest  savor  floats  ; 

And  thought  the  fields,  the  emerald  lyre. 

Each  tendril  with  its  calyx  blows, 
To  her,  sweet  rapture  would  impart: 


MY   HARP.  95 

Perchance  the  soul  of  some  dead  rose, 
Held  fragrant  converse  with  her  heart. 

The  sunset  is  a  jacinth  lyre 

With  chords  of  ruby  rays  of  light, 
Whose  melody,  in  strains  of  fire, 

Dies  on  the  twilight  breast  of  night : 
And  she  whose  being  caused  the  years 

In  'wildering  sweetness  to  depart, 
Now  like  a  silent  harp  appears, 

But  is  the  sunset  of  my  heart. 


96 


TO   THE    SOUTH    WIND. 


FROM  bowery  islands  come,  0  South  ! 

Where  dark  myrrh-thickets,  crowned  with 
dew, 

In  musky  hollows  bow  to  you, 

And  touch  some  flower  of  misty  blue, 
To  hear  from  out  its  petal  mouth  : 

0  sweetest  breeze  that  ever  blew  ! 

Delicious  balm  1  with  southern  night 

Tint  the  blown  grape  and  paint  the  bloom  ; 
And  for  the  clover-buds  make  room, 
Which  sway  in  ceaseless  grief  and  gloom, 

And  weep  dew-tears  of  lost  delight, 
Above  Borne  pansy's  simple  tomb. 


TO    THE    SOUTH    WIND.  97 

The  soft,  white  arms  of  each  pale  rose, 
Woo  thee  I  know  to  peaceful  rest  ; 
Near  sedgy  banks,  the  hawthorn's  breast, 
Tempts  thy  parched  lips  to  nectar  blessed, 

Like  lilies  which,  white-winged,  arose 
And  passed  into  the  silent  west. 

The  moss-rose,  'neath  her  hood  of  green, 

Blushing,  doth  often  meet  thee  here. 

Beside  the  limit  of  the  mere, 

Where  jets  the  flag,  whose  blades  appear, 
Swayed  o'er  the  lymph  with  shade  between, 

Like  waving  plumes  above  a  bier. 

A  cloudy  shallop  floateth  by- 
Borne  o'er  the  summer  sea  of  space, 
To  drift  thee,  with  its  sails  of  lace, 
To  this,  0  gale  !  thy  resting  place  ; 

But  in  the  palace  of  the  sky, 

The  bright  cloud  seems  a  lighted  vase. 
9 


98  TO   THE   SOUTH    WIND. 

Sweet  dove!  beneath  thy  perfume  wings, 

Dost  bring  no  message  from  thy  clime? 

No  dear  words  of  thy  tender  prime  ? 

Does  she,  who  in  that  younger  time, 
I  loved,  alas !  now  dwell  where  clings 

Her  cloud-land  to  the  hills  sublime  ? 

Perchance  she  lives!  If  so,  increase 

Her  wavering  grace — her  life  employ — 
Let  no  marred  hope  her  hope  destroy. 
Nor  the  sad  past  her  dreams  annoy ; 

Her  golden  bowl  be  rimmed  with  peace, 
And  beaded  with  white  bells  of  joy. 

The  griffins  at  the  marble  stair, 

Had  scarce  a  stonier  heart  than  she — 
Her  love  the  sweeter  mystery  : 
Oft  wandering  by  the  placid  sea, 

From  odor  clouds  in  carmine  air, 

She  showered  her  ro»e-bud  lips  on  inc.. 


TO    THE    SOUTH    WIND.  90 

Dear  rain  !  unknown  to  darkened  days 

Which  rippled  in  the  past,  and  swam 

Like  watery  circles  into  calm  ; 

This  zephyr,  with  its  robe  of  balm, 
Recalls  thee,  as  adown  these  ways, 

I  dream  of  sandal  and  of  palm. 

In  copses  here  uncoil  the  ferns, 

To  couch,  0  South  !  thy  limbs  in  ease, 
Where,  'mid  the  hum  of  mites  and  bees, 
Thy  life  shall  change  to  one  with  these : 

Ah  !  e'en  the  bolder  yarrow  learns, 

Where  fraught  with  honey  comes  thebree/e. 

Sweet  breath  !  half  memory,  half  bairn, 
Thou  wanderest  from  a  dell  yet  dear, 
Where  souls  of  withered  roses  near. 
Hung  sadly  o'er  the  vernal  bier, 

Till  some  bird  woke  the  fragrant  calm. 
And  fanned  the  perfume  to  mo  here. 


100 


WAITING. 


SENTINEL  trees  whose  spears  are  stars, 

Guard  the  lawn  and  its  pebbled  way ; 
And  through  the  boughs,  like  emerald  bars, 

The  moon  pours  down  its  silver  day. 
The  grange  seems  cut  against  the  sky, 

Lights  in  the  windows  glow  and  gleam  ; 
I  fear  you  care  but  little,  that  I 

Am  waiting  for  you,  Marian  Dreem 

Sadly  I  watch  the  fragrant  flame 

Of  flowers,  which  seem  like  burning  ships, 
And,  breathing  now  thy  honeydew  name, 

Silk-belted  bees  hum  round  my  lips. 


WATTING.  101 

The  orange  blooms  seem  dead  and  cold, 
Withered  and  dead  with  dripping  dew : 

Is  love  forgot,  or  love  grown  old? 
Marian  sweet,  I  shall  question  you. 

I  meet  you  first  in  a  vale  of  calms, 

Of  listless  deeps  and  fluted  gloom, 
A  valley  brimmed  with  a  thousand  balms, 

Where  luscious  dusk  was  rich  perfume. 
And  where  the  flushed  day  reared  its  throne 

On  flaccid  billows  of  crimson  shine, 
The  sky  by  an  Odin-breath  was  blown 

To  a  bubble  of  purple  wine. 

There  the  sweet,  south  zephyr  faints  in  heat, 
By  the  dear,  parched  mouth  of  Summer 
kissed ; 

And  where  the  clouds  of  porphyry  meet, 
They  seem  a  city  shaped  in  mist — 

A  city  of  some  embodied  bliss 

Built  in  the  future,  seen  through  thought 
9* 


l()li  WAITING. 

If  other  dreams  are  fair  as  this, 

Marian  sweet,  must  ours  be  naught? 

Well,  you  can  make  me  pale  with  a  look, 
Or  say  in  kisses  you're  still  my  own  ; 

Standing  here  by  the  naze-crowned  brook, 
I'm  yet  at  our  wonted  tryst  alone. 

Waiting  and  watching,  I  fear  the  worst- 
Waiting  and  watching,  echoes  the  stream, 

But  I,  though  you  make  my  life  accursed, 
Sadly  shall  love  you,  Marian  Dreem. 

Then  I  shall  have  my  gifts  again, 

Soul  print  letters,  necklace  and  ring  ; 
But  you  never  shall  know  the  pain 

That  even  their  poor  presence  will  bring. 
But  all  my  doubts  are  frail  as  air, 

I  hear  a  step  in  the  dell  beneath ; 
The  orange  blossoms  seem  fresh  and  fair — 

I  see  them  twined  in  a  bridal  wreath. 


103 


AGLAIA. 


UNLOOSE  your  hair  from  its  russet  braids  ; 
Let  it  descend  like  silken  dew, 
'Neath  the  skies  of  your  eyes  of  blue, 

And  mingle  down,  with  gathering  shades, 

Over  your  shoulders  of  pearly  white. 
I  hear  the  fount's  incanting  fall 
In  billow-cadence  from  the  hall, 

And  a  distant  gittern's  symphonies. 

All  things  murmur  a  hushed  delight, 
Sweet  mystery  of  mysteries! 

Starlight  floats  round  thee  like  a  vail — 
Each  tress  seems  sunshine  in  repose — 
Here  the  rubv  flame  of  a  rose 


104  AGLAIA. 

Kisses  thy  breast  to  an  amorous  gale, 
And  burns  with  a  passionate  soul ! 
I  gaze  from  oriels  tinted  red — 
This  silver  cresset,  naptha-fed, 

Floods  the  room  with  malachite  seas. 
Filled  to  the  brim  is  the  golden  bowl, 
Fair  mystery  of  mysteries  ! 

Come  out  into  the  night,  sweet  dream! 

To  vernal  silence  by  the  lake. 

Where  moonlight  falleth  flake  by  flake, 
And  Avhite  flowers  forever  seem, 
On  the  lips  of  the  liquid  gloom, 

A  lily-Venice  rich  and  rare. 

Come  down  the  lane  where,  cowled  in  air, 

All  the  whispering  linden  trees 
Count  their  chaplets  in  beads  of  bloom, 
Loved  mystery  of  mysteries  ! 

Come,  flashing  with  diamonds  and  lace, 
To  boskv  dells  where,  overhead, 


AGLAIA.  105 

A  single  circle  of  silver  thread, 
Arches  above  the  young  moon's  face, 
And  seems  a  dome — the  far-off  sign 
Of  the  glimmering  city  of  stars. 
Come  where  no  baser  fancy  mars 

The  higher  life  of  reveries. 
Come,  my  beautiful !  mine,  still  mine, 
Fair  mystery  of  mysteries  ! 


Here,  in  this  elfin  nook,  we  rest- 
Yon  breathe  an  influence  vague  and  strange, 
To  balmful  Edens  of  sense  ;  and  change 

Like  clouds  along  the  purple  west. 

Here  a  daisy  upon  the  shore, 
Like  a  radiant  soul  doth  seem, 
Waiting  to  cross  the  Stygian  stream. 
With  fragrant  spirits  such  as  these, 

You  hold  communion  evermore, 
Sweet  mystery  of  mysteries  1 


100  AT,  LAI  A. 

Thou  wast  a  bird  whose  regal  notes, 

Though  changed  to  voice,  are  still  the  same. 

Thy  warm,  rich  beauty  soothes,  aflame- 
Ecstatic  sweetness  ever  floats, 
Where'er  its  eastern  spell  is  cast. 

If  hopes  were  strong  as  fairy  ships, 

I'd  waste  my  being  on  thy  lips, 

Here,  sailing  life's  midsummer  seas 
And  mingle  with  thee  and  the  past, 
Dear  mystery  of  mysteries! 


107 


ON   THE   LAKE. 


THE  glassy  stillness  of  the  mere, 

In  samite  tapestries  of  shade, 
Dents  the  hushed  coves :  while  pale  and  clear, 

A  bridge  of  moonlight  spans  the  glade. 
A  starry  cestus  zones  o'erhead  ; 

Blue  Lyra,  harp  of  Israfel, 

Lights  the  pure  peace  :  in  balm  doth  dwell 
Antares,  flashing  snow  and  red. 

I  launch  my  boat  upon  the  lake, 

And  drift  along  the  liquid  dark, 
To  watch  in  brier  or  woven  brake, 

The  lire-fly  sail  his  vermeil  bark. 


108  ON    THE    LAKE. 

Some  night-bird  drips  a  note  through  night, 
To  surge  the  dusky  silence  o'er  ; 
Where  daisies  yield  upon  the  shore, 

Their  melody  of  gold  and  white. 

An  angel  laves  a  pool  of  thought, 

And  makes  a  cherished  memory  whole  ; 
A  brain-mist  falls,  with  silver  fraught, 

And  eyes  peer  out  which  type  a  soul. 
While,  bound  with  pearls  in  wavy  gloom, 

The  hair  floats  down  :  a  spangled  dream  ; 

And  cheeks  joy-fervent,  ever  seem 
Flushed  like  some  sweet  pomegranate  bloom. 

No  sound  is  heard  :  the  jasper  dew, 

Torn  from  the  tissue  of  a  cloud, 
Floods  a  meek  pansy's  eyes  of  blue, 

Which  o'er  a  Trail  wind-flower  is  bowed. 
The  violet  odor  seems  to  say, 

In  spicy  tones  to  sadness  moved  : 


ON    THE    LAKE.  109 

Ah  me  !  to  love  and  not  be  loved, 
Sets  starlight  in  the  breast  for  day. 

In  respite  from  a  painless  death, 

This  spray  of  mint  no  more  shall  stir, 
Nor  wrap  the  incense  of  its  breath, 

Around  the  spiky  lavender. 
A  tuberose  seems  a  mimic  May, 

And  with  caught  sunlight  forms  a  part. 

Saying  :  There  dwells  in  every  heart, 
A  hidden  idol  draped  away — 

The  sun  is  idol  of  the  flowers. 

I  drift  along  the  tepid  June, 
And  read  afar  from  placid  bowers, 

The  mystic  missal  of  the  moon. 
I  float  the  lake  and  watch  the  dells, 

Obedient  to  the  variant  tide, 

Where  dim  and  ghostly  shadows  glide 

Along  the  brink,  like  sentinels. 
10 


110  OX    THE    LAKE. 

Earth  is  the  altar  of  the  night, 
Whose  jeweled  ephod  is  the  sky, 

And  flowers  the  offering  to  light, 

For  whose  dear  sake  they  live  to  die. 

All  valley-bo wered  from  the  breeze, 
The  lake  is  strange  to  wave  or  whorl, 
And  seemeth  like  a  liquid  pearl, 

Amid  the  tresses  of  the  trees. 

Ah,  many  a  life  is  like  this  mere, 
Rich  with  an  innate  mystery, 

And  dark  and  rare,  but  calm  and  clear, 
And  purer  than  the  common  sea. 

Such  lives  that,  striving  after  truth, 
Before  dear  nature's  sceptered  throne 
Of  beauty  bow,  0  such  alone, 

Have  glimpses  of  immortal  youth  ! 

Where  myrtle-blossoms  fleck  the  green 
Of  thymy  banks,  I  see  the  light 


OX    THE    LAKE.  Ill 

Edge  the  still  lake  with  lily  sheen, 

Like  beaded  clouds  which  fringe  the  night. 

And  dew-drops  sparkle  in  each  glome, 
By  purple  bays  in  maple  glens, 
While  o'er  the  depths  and  in  the  fens, 

The  glow-worms  dash  their  diamond  foam. 

Here  odors,  tinged  with  dusk,  arise 
From  nard  and  cassia,  frail  and  thin, 

And  mingle  'neath  the  leafy  skies, 
Like  sounds  of  lute  and  mandolin. 

r 

It  always  by  such  balmy  shore, 

And  with  no  ruder  breezes  pressed, 
Life's  waters  might  serenely  rest, 

How  sweet  to  live  for  evermore  ! 


112 


SEPTEMBER    TO   APRIL. 


You  arc  a  white  vein  in  a  shell — 

A  dew-drop  hid  in  the  breast  of  a  rose— 
A  leaf  that  sinks  in  a  brook  as  it  flows — 

A  fay  in  a  lily's  silver  bell, 

Or  a  dell  by  a  river,  in  green  repose. 

I  am  robed  in  russet  and  gold  ; 

I  dwell  in  crofts,  and  a  fall  which  pours 
White  lilies  of  spray  upon  its  shores. 

I  am  dying  'mid  wealth  untold  ; 

The  breeze  is  the  splash  of  the  golden  oars! 

Green  fields  babble  in  flowers  to  you ; 
You  are  morning-star  of  the  years — 
The  Nereid  which  spring-barked  appears. 


.SEPTEMBER     TO    APRIL.  113 

Roses  are  sweetest  in  the  dew, 
And  you  in  silvery,  silken  tears. 

The  snow  is  a  vail  'twixt  thee  and  me  ; 

It  keepeth  thy  lips  from  mine  alway. 

You  and  1  are  clouds  of  a  day, 
Which,  drifting  over  the  crimson  sea, 

In  pearls  of  white  perfume  waste  away. 

The  diamond-smile  of  odorous  stars, 
Hangeth  thy  skies  with  joy  for  thee. 
You,  in  the  sunset  of  time,  shall  be 

One  of  the  radiant  jasper  bars, 
And  a  bead  on  a  mystic  rosary. 

Oh,  my  beautiful !  we  but  swing, 
Like  fragrant  censers,  up  and  down. 
You  paint  the  green  and  I  the  brown. 

You  are  the  gem  in  the  zone  of  Spring, 

And  I  the  Autumn's  golden  crown. 
10* 


Ill 


JUNE    MEMORIES. 


ONLY  some  memories  of  June  : 

What  time  the  fish  leap  in  the  firth, 
The  fanged-bug  haunts  the  leafy  girth, 

And  locusts  pour  their  drowsy  tune — 

When  plovers  pipe  along  the  brink 
By  silver  shores  in  pearly  shine, 

Where  gorgeous  insects  come  to  drink 
From  cups  of  tulips,  brimmed  with  wine. 

Then  rich  moss-roses  star  the  plats, 
And  in  dim  dawns,  on  dewy  boughs, 
The  joyous  brown-thrush  trills  his  vows 

In  alder  clumps  and  willow  flats. 


JUNE    MEMORIES.  115 

Then  near  the  growths  of  mistletoe, 

Where  cuckoos  chant  their  love-sweet  cry. 

Dear  bands  of  violets  I  know, 
In  odor  dreams,  go  up  the  sky. 

Some  say,  the  morn  of  memory 

Is  ever  dropping  tender  dew  ; 

I  know  not  if  the  thought  be  true, 
But  yet,  some  sadness  falls  on  me. 
For  few  can  look  on  vanished  days, 

However  bright  their  suns  have  set, 
And  say  :  I  see  but  cause  to  praise, 

And  find  no  reasons  for  regret. 

Like  shade  on  pinks  at  heated  noon, 
Where  cooling  breezes  seldom  blew, 
The  past  casts  down  its  healing  dew, 

And  makes  my  dream  a  peaceful  June. 

As  swings  a  sparrow  on  a  spray, 

The  memory  sways,  nor  errant,  flies, 


116  JUNE    MEMORIES. 

While  on  the  verge,  and  far  away, 
The  almonds  of  Avilion  rise. 

I  see  the  twilight  glooming  down  ; 

And  Hesper,  in  the  azure  sky, 

Seems  like  a  blue-bell's  amber  eye, 
Or  like  a  blue-bell's  golden  crown. 
Then,  soon  from  depths  of  purple-black, 

Orion  glimmers  forth  with  Mars, 
And  all  the  Pleiads,  flashing  back, 

Are  gold  grapes,  clustered  'mid  the  stars. 

A  trailer's  leaflet  holds  with  care 

A  crimson  berry  on  its  gloom, 

And  seems  a  beryl  urn,  whoso  plume 
Of  spiced  flame  wavers  in  the  air. 
Then  comes  a  day  with  cloud-vailed  face, 

Whose  mists  robe  white  the  mountains  high, 
But  leave  their  peaks  to  swing  in  space— 

The  hanging  gardens  of  the  sky. 


JUNE    MEMORIES.  117 

I  see  June  on  the  moor  and  wold  : 

The  martins  eddy  round  the  limes  ; 

And  like  a  dream  of  fairer  climes, 
Arises  each  marsh-marigold. 
The  month  doth  whisper  from  the  grass — 

It  floats  the  day  and  its  decline. 
My  heart  seems  but  a  slanted  glass, 

Filled  to  the  brim  with  June,  like  wine. 

Ah  sweet,  when  first  the  rose  in  tears 

Of  dew,  burst  open  to  the  sun! 

But  soon  its  petals  one  by  one, 
Had  fallen  in  the  stream  of  years ; 
And  all  its  song-bird's  tender  tune 

Had  fled — its  flowerets  ceased  to  grow; 
For  life,  alas !  has  but  one  June — 

October  beckons,  and  I  go. 


RETURNED    FROM    WAR. 


SHROUDED  by  his  country's  flag, 
And  in  martial  garments  dressed, 

Came  the  soldier  to  his  home, 
With  his  sword  upon  his  breast. 

Stepping  to  the  muffled  drum, 
Pass  the  guard  on  either  side  : 

All  the  people  as  they  come, 
Whisper  how  the  warrior  died. 

Of  his  deeds,  what  words  can  tell  ? 

But  in  buttle,  'mid  the  van, 
Cheering  on  the  fight,  he  fell 

For  the  common  cause  of  man. 


RETURNED    FROM    WAR.  119 

He  shall  lead  the  charge  no  more — 

Scale  the  rampart  to  the  gun  ; 
For  they  bear  him  gently  home, 

To  his  wife  and  little  one. 

She,  who  through  her  bridal  vail, 

Looked  and  called  him  dearest,  best ! 

Bends  above  him  in  her  tears, 
With  her  head  upon  his  breast. 

She  has  sorrow  for  her  part  : 

Grief  alone  to  her  is  sent, 
Blighting  all  her  summer  heart, 

And  the  roses  of  content. 

What  if  victory  crowned  the  day  ? 

She  will  heed  you  not  nor  stir  : 
He  has  fallen  in  the  fray  : 

He  was  all  the  world  to  her. 


120 


LADY  LISLE. 

THE  Lady  Lisle  is  fair  and  good  ; 

ITer  grace,  like  spikenard  spilt ;  her  ways, 
Surmounting  all  the  pride  of  blood  : 

She  holds  her  peace  unless  to  praise  ; 
All  love  her  perfect  womanhood. 

The  landscape-painter  from  afar, 
Unconscious,  in  his  toil  immersed, 

Is  dearer  than  all  others  are  ; 
She  sees  and  loves  him  from  the  first; 

His  face  shines  on  her  like  a  star. 

She  leaves  her  house  at  golden  dawn  ; 

Her  gardener's  makes  her  dwelling  place  : 
She  whispers  that  her  wealth  is  gone  ; 

She  lays  aside  her  pearls  and  lace, 
And  puts  a  simple  kirtle  on. 


LADY    LISLE.  l'2l 

'T \vas  June  when  kindly  nature  smiled  — 

A  queen  of  roses  was  the  day  : 
The  painter  half  the  morn  beguiled, 

To  meet  her  in  the  village  way, 
But  knew  her  as  the  gardener's  child. 

He  quaffed  delight  with  half  a  fear  ; 

He  scorned  the  dross  of  ignorant  wealth  ; 
So,  in  the  rose-month  of  the  year, 

He  Avooed  her  for  her  dower  of  health, 
And  for  her  goodness,  held  her  dear. 

He  gave  a  sketch  of  peace,  which  shed 

A  brighter  halo  on  his  name  ; 
Peace  rested  in  the  blue  o'erhead — 

Peace  on  the  lake  and  hill  the  same  ; 
And  peace  within  his  breast,  he  said. 

She  praised  his  work — true  work  of  Art  ; 

And  praise  from  such  sweet  Mips  was  bliss. 
11 


122  LADY    LISLE. 

I  love,  he  said  ;  and  for  her  part, 
She  gave  him  with  a  loving  kiss, 

^•** 

Her  trust,  the  warder  of  her  heart. 

When  dusk  had  twined,  with  ruby  shine, 
The  star-flowers  in  the  hair  of  night, 

He  spoke  of  tilt  and  royal  line, 

And  mentioned  with  subdued  delight, 

His  vine-clad  cottage  on  the  Rhine. 

,•* 
The  bridal  dawn  in  many  a  smile 

Was  wreathed,  that  blushed  forth  into  day 
She  said,  while  in  the  chapel  aisle, 

The  gardener's  child  has  passed  away — 
She  was,  and  is,  the  Lady  Lisle. 

He  saw  her  jewels'  shade  and  shine  ; 

And  proudly  stood  he  up  and  said, 
Though  Lady  Lisle,  you  still  are  mine, 

And  shall  be,  after  we  are  wed, 
The  Countess  Aura  on  the  Rhine. 


LEGEND  OF  THti  KAATERSKILL. 


LIKE  a  stone  with  an  inscription, 

''Gainst  the  sepulchre  of  night, 
With  its  halo  of  tradition, 

Garden  Rock  is  garnished  bright. 
Here  the  Manitou  or  Spirit 

Reared  the  palace  of  the  dawn, 
When  the  r.tars,  the  sleeping  beauties, 

Trembled  ere  the  dark  was  gone. 
FTore  he  gave  the  valleys  plenty, 

To  the  seaboard  far  away  ; 
ITore  he  breathed  his  wrath  in  tempests, 

Here  he  smiled  his  love  in  day. 

At  the  base,  dank,  turbid  waters 
Filled  the  hollow  in  a  lake  ; 


124        LEGEND  OF  THK  KA  ATEUSK  I  1, 

And  beside  each  tiger-lily 

Lay  a  lizard  or  a  snake. 
Far  around  the  sloping  margin, 

Flowers  in  wild  luxuriance  grew  : 
Hyacinths  of  snow  and  azure, 

Roses  swathed  in  crimson  dew. 
Then  at  times  some  flashing  robin 

Through  the  woodland  sailed  along, 
Seeming  like  a  bark  with  banners 

Floating  down  a  tide  of  song. 

So  the  Indians  loved  the  precinct, 

With  a  sacred  awe  and  fear; 
And  the  bravest  of  the  hunters, 

Never  dared  to  enter  here. 
'Till  one  autumn  dusk,  when  Nature 

Mild  in  all  her  aspect  lay, 
One  who  clambered  up  the  mountain, 

Passed  within  the  haunted  way. 
Here  a  mystic  sense  stole  o'er  him, 

lie  had  never  known  before, 


LEGEND  OF  THE  KAATERSKILL.        125 

As  he  watched  the  broad  pond-lilies, 
Like  white  sails  afar  from  shore. 

Here  the  lark  to  sleep  was  nestled. 

First  to  wake  at  ruddy  gleam  ; 
And  the  presence  of  the  poppies 

Wrought  each  sorrow  in  a  dream. 
To  the  Indian,  all  the  twilight 

Bridged  a  feeling  vague  and  deep  ; 
While  his  soul  in  thoughts  of  beauty, 

Charmed  with  silence,  seemed  to  sleep. 
l>ut  he  saw,  o'er  moss  and  lichen, 

Every  tulip's  fiery  crest, 
And  they  seemed  like  travelers  murmuring  : 

Alabama.     Here  we  rest. 

Lost  and  prostrate  now,  the  hunter 

Changing  to  a  spring  did  seem  ; 
Then  adown  the  mountain's  bosom, 

Like  a  ringlet  fell  a  stream! 

Eadcin  semper;  for  the  noblest 
11* 


126    LEGEND  OF  THE  KAATERSKILL 

Who  to  greatest  heights  attain, 
Find  the  pleasure-pain  of  knowledge — 

But  are  dashed  to  earth  again. 
They  have  found  the  fount  a  Mara, 

Still  receding  in  the  ken  ; 
But  their  thoughts,  in  living  waters, 

Wander  through  the  hearts  of  men. 

So  the  streamlet  down  the  valley, 

Laughed  in  ripples  in  the  sun, 
Purling  o'er  the  distant  reaches, 

When  the  day  had  just  begun. 
While,  in  spiral  whirls,  the  bittern 

Sailed  its  lonely  way  along, 
Drinking  in  the  scents  of  roses, 

Where  they  bourgeon  in  a  throng. 
And  the  Indian's  deathless  spirit, 

Wrapped  in  golden  languors  still, 
Whispers  bliss  in  every  murmur 

Of  the  crystal  Kaaterskill. 


127 


THE   RIVER-SIDE. 


I  TAKE  the  path  where  none  intrude — 
A  sparry  line  by  thorp  and  sted — 

And  in  a  wave-lipped  solitude, 
Tinct  with  flushed  spring-time  overhead, 

I  watch  the  hills  whose  feet  are  shores : 
In  crystal  calms  their  shadow  lies, 

Which  seem  like  marble  palace  floors, 

Roofed  with  the  arras  of  the  skies. 

» 

The  silken  buds  are  on  each  tree : 

Dear  birds  their  pent-up  rapture  sin<*  : 

While  flowery  banners  wave  to  me, 
And  petal  bells  sweet  welcome  riiur. 


128  THE    RIVER-SIDK. 

Tlie  Spring  breaks  through  the  fading  rime  ; 

Once  more  she  robes  these  banks  for  you, 
"With  glories  of  a  fairer  clime, 

Oh,  River,  sister  of  the  dew  ! 

Oh,  River,  sister  of  the  sea, 

Flow  down,  and  all  thy  being  pour 
Into  thy  brother's  arms,  to  be 

A  tvpe  of  time  for  evermore. 
For  each  year  leads  to  greater  ends  : 

The  future  dawns  with  brighter  smiles. 
And  fate,  a  veering  shallop,  tends 

To  summer  seas  and  jasper  isles. 

To  dare  is  half  what  'tis  to  do— 
So,  ever  daring  for  the  right, 

Keeping  some  noble  aim  in  view, 

Let  each  strive  onward  with  his  might. 

Then  social  ills  will  soon  assuage- 
Then  life  will  not  be  dead  at  heart, 


THE    III  V  Ell- SIDE.  129 

But  time  soon  bring  th'  Elysian  ago 
When  Use  shall  take  the  hand  of  Art. 

Oh,  River!  mother  of  the  rain, 

Along  your  brink  spiced  flowers  abound, 
And  here  a  lily  blooms  again — 

An  ivory  lyre,  with  fragrant  sound. 
Ah!  even  a  bud  with  perfume  breath, 

Is  with  a  holy  lesson  rife  ; 
For  life  is  but  the  germ  of  death, 

And  death,  the  bud  of  higher  life. 

And  so  I  dream  with  calm  delight, 

And  watch  the  River  sparkle  by, 
Till,  like  a  ripened  autumn,  night 

lias  strown,  with  golden  leaves,  the  sky. 
Xow,  though  I  go,  I  know  whene'er 

I  see  bright  waters  glide  and  gleam, 
I'll  fancy  once  again  I  hear 

Thy  silver  dash  of  waves,  oh  stream  ! 


130 


DORA. 


Now  for  the  first  in  six  long  years,  I  stood 

Beside  my  cousin,  Dora,  at  the  Hall— 

A  gray  old  grange  which  mocked  the  errant 

years ; 

Its  features  English,  as  my  uncle's  were — 
The  dear  God  give  him  peace,  for  he  is  dead. 
Dora  the-  woman,  statelier  than  the  girl, 
Shook  hands,  and  placed  her  husband's  fast 

in  mine, 
Saying  to  him  : 

"Oh,  Vivian!  though  he  once 
Made  stalking  shadows  of  three  weary 

years, 
Forgive,  forgive  my  cousin  for  my  sake." 


DOHA.  131 

Strange  words:  and  when  I  asked  the  sense, 
They  both  threw  out  a  hundred  butterflies 
Of  questions  of  the  time  since  last  we  met, 
Which  flew  for  answer  round  and  round  my 

ears  ; 

And  Dora  set  her  child  upon  my  knee, 
Which  had  its  mother's  eyes  and  golden  hair. 

Soon  after,  Vivian  thus  :     "  At  times,  I  write 
To  quell  the  waking  dream  that  life  oft' seems;" 
So,  to  explain  the  vague  words  of  his  wife, 
He  read  a  poem,  three  years  old  that  day — 
Written  on  visiting  the  quaint,  old  Hall, 
After  my  uncle's  death,  with  Dora  gone  : — 

At  the  angle  of  the  path, 
Plays  the  fountain  in  the  air  : 

S  \vans  are  in  a  crystal  bath  ; 
Roses  in  the  sweet  parterre. 


132  DOHA. 

In  the  glamour  and  the  shine, 
Drowse  the  peacocks  on  the  wall, 

Where  the  sprays  of  eglantine, 
O'er  the  marble  Daphne  fall. 

Memory  clingeth  to  the  scene, 
And  the  lily-clouded  cope  : 

On  the  past  she  seems  to  lean — 
That  her  anchor,  she  a  Hope. 

For  across  a  silent  sea, 

Flashes  gleam  along  the  shore — 
Dreams  of  one  who  is  to  me, 

Queen  of  days  that  are  no  more. 

Mere  close-linked  at  eve,  we  saw 
Branchy  shadows  braid  the  walk  ; 

And  with  civic  strife  and  law 
Mingled  in  discursive  talk. 

She  had  dreamy,  harebell  eyes, 
Sunning  oVr  a  fault  less  lim- — 


DORA.  133 

Soul-deeps  for  her  low  replies, 
And  a  form  of  perfect  grace. 

When  the  night  hung  balanced  near, 
Oft  we  took  this  dusky  lawn ; 

And  the  starry  circle  here, 

Seemed  the  wedding-ring  of  dawn. 

When  at  eve  we  lingered  late, 
Ere  she  sought  her  calm  repose, 

Pressed  I,  at  the  garden  gate, 
Lips  as  sensuous  as  a  rose. 

Oh,  the  fancies  which  I  reared  1 
Built  the  future  broad  and  fair — 

Never  once  a  flaw  appeared 
In  my  castle  in  the  air  1 

So,  like  leaves  upon  a  stream, 
All  the  happy  days  went  by 
Then  another  came  between, 

And  we  parted — she  and  I. 
12 


134  DOHA. 

[lore  he  read  to  her  of  May- 
Whispered  blithely  in  her  ear  : 

Here  she  walked  the  pebbled  way- 
Sang  the  songs  I  loved  to  hear. 

Though  we  smile  at  all  love  care, 
Oft  its  memories  ne'er  depart ; 

So  my  castle  in  the  air 

Is  in  ruins  round  my  heart. 

This  was  a  prophet's  palimpsest,  from  whence 
I  drew  the  meaning  of  my  cousin's  words, 
Which  circled  them — but  late  a  G-yges  ring. 
Now  1  remembered  how  six  years  ago, 
I  read  and  walked  with  Dora  in  the  lawn, 
WhenVivian,  maddened  by  some  jealous  dread. 
Had  left  her  rashly,  thinking  me  her  choice. 
So  looking  up,  and  comprehending  all, 
I  saw  their  glances  meet  as  lips. 


A   C  A  V  ]•;  E  C  II  O. 

I  COME  o'er  sandhill  and  o'er  wave, 

A  whisper  of  the  giant  deep, 
To  echo  down  this  granite  cave, 

And  find  herein  a  charmed  sleep. 
I  break  the  silence  far  around. 

Which  woos  with  weird  Circean  sway, 
Though  but  the  frightened  shadow-sound, 

Of.-ome  sea-murmur  passed  away. 
1  sigh  through  glooms  of  stalactite — 

Circinal  ferns  1  tremble  by, 
Till,  set  with  light,  the  happy  night 

Rolls  star-capped  billows  up  the  sky. 

]  faint  in  savors  of  the  spring: 

The  cinque-drops  i?  the  cowslips'  breast, 
And  larks  which  "tirra  lirra"  sing. 


1:{G  A    CAVE   ECHO. 

All,  all  do  tempt  mo  back  to  rest. 
I  touched  the  silver  coifs  of  waves, 

And  on  the  shore  the  fronded  moss, 
But  here  in  gleamy,  garnet  caves, 

Lo!  all  my  gain  doth  end  with  loss. 
I  fly  athwart  the  rocks,  and  flee 

In  jasper  grottos  dashed  with  stain, 
Till  unto  me,  the  moon-led  sea 

Puts  out  its  white  spray-arms  again. 


A  sweet  mermaiden  broke  my  rest, 

Down  where  the  coral  halls  are  found ; 
She  pressed  me  to  her  heaving  breast, 

And  called  me  fairest  rose  of  sound  ; 
I  stole  away  the  while  she  slept— 

I  kissed  her  lips  and  stole  away ; 
She  did  not  dream  that;  while  she  slept, 

Her  rose  would  go  to  seek  the  May. 
The  downy  foam,  in  folded  mist, 


A  c  A  VI-;  EC*  no.  l;)7 

Lay  on  her  bosom,  snow  on  snow  ; 
She  little1  wist  that  as  1  kissed 
1  saw  the  crimson  beads  below. 

1  sailed  the  wrought,  asbestos  floor, 

Beneath  the  ceiling  diamond-starred, 
And  all  the  easlle  wandered  o'er, 

Apast  the  drowsy  merman  guard. 
I  saw  the  mimic-  donjon-keep: 

A  rain  of  restless  splendor  gloom  : 
The  spiky  coral  blushing  deep  ; 

And  scallop  censers  burn  perfume. 
A  dragon's  gorge  a  fountain  poured, 

While  white  as  snow-drop  broke  the  spray  ; 
And  when  it  lowered,  a  chanson  soared, 

And  died  in  echoes  far  away. 

Elna,  my  Elna,  as  the  wind 
Sways  the  sweet  blossom  pendant  from  a  rock, 

So  all  mv  heart  doth  swav  before  thy  soul. 
1-2* 


138  A    CAVE   ECHO. 

Elna,  my  Elna,  as  at  dawn 
The  songs  of  unknown  birds  rise  from  the  copse, 
So  nameless  feelings  rise  before  thine  eyes. 

The  vine-fringed  river  spoke  of  thee  : 
The  caves  in  lonely  dimness  asked  of  thee  : 
All  things  worship  thee,  Elna,  my  Elna. 

0,  I  have  loved  thee  more  than  life! 
And  as  the  glimmering  stars  are  lost  in  morn, 
So  am  I  lost  in  thee,  Elna,  my  Elna. 

But  naught  the  amber  castle  kept, 

Was  half  so  dear  as  mermaid  mine  ; 
I  could  but  watch  her  as  she  slept 

Upon  the  damasked  berylline. 
The  finny  half  below  her  waist, 

In  golden  scales  flashed  up  a  charm  ; 
And  o'er  her  floating  hair  was  placed, 

Tiara-sweet,  a  snowy  arm. 


A    CAVE   ECHO.  139 

Crowned  with  a  ruby  star,  she  seemed 

Like  twilight  mingling  day  and  dusk  ; 
And  while   she    dreamed,  the    urn-lamp 

gleamed 

Through  porphyry  chambers  rich  with 
musk. 

I  kissed  the  mermaid  once  again — 

I  passed  where  meads  of  sea-grass  wave  ; 
And,  sighing  as  I  left  the  main, 

I  came  to  sleep  within  this  cave. 
Like  joyous  days  which  flit  along — 

Those  happy  moments  life  doth  crown, 
Each  echo  seems  a  step  of  song, 

To  depths  of  silence  leading  down. 
My  inessential  being  wanes  ; 

I  falter  as  I  murmur  through 
These  dusky  lanes  of  onyx  stains — 

I  faint — I  die — a  long  adieu. 


110 


OLE  OX   AT    0  HOP  OS. 

CLEON  the  poet,  famed  throughout  all  Greece, 
Mused  o'er  his  tablets,  in  the  palace  hall. 
And  high  the  clear  voice  of  a  timbrel  rose. 
Delirious  with  rapture,  half  of  pain. 
Here  Rhodope  in  marble,  crowned  with  bays, 
Supine,  beside  u  pyramid  of  shade, 
Swooned  with  white   peace.      And  from  his 

carven  niche, 

Poising  a  flame-barbed  spear,  a  warrior  leaned 
And  battled  with  the  shadows.  Then  to  this. 
Or  of  such  import,  shaped  the  restless  thought  . 


CLEON   AT   OROPOS.  141 

My  epos  on  those  leaves  of  gold, 

Through   which   some   depthless    mean 
ings  gleam, 
'Mid  wordy  petals  fold  on  fold, 

Is  crude  beside  my  perfect  dream. 
For  quick  desire  outstrips  our  deeds ; 

And  these  but  keep  the  ashes  wholo 

Of  some  strange  passion  of  the  soul, 
E'en  as  a  grate  doth  hold  its  gleeds. 


But  here  is  that  which  time  may  crown: 

Here  burns  the  silver  lamp  of  youth ; 
And  great  Minerva  wanders  down 

To  prove  that  progress  is  a  truth. 
Here  runs  what  idol-toil  has  gained 

To  give  this  golden  age  its  place  ; 

And  here,  eternity  and  space 
Seem  two  vast  circles,  unexplained. 


1  ['2  rLMOX    AT    O HOP OS 

Here  Venn?!,  fanned  with  wooing  gales. 

Which  from  her  bright  foam-palace  flee, 
Guiding  her  diamond  pinnace,  sails 

Along  the  calm,  blue  evening  sea. 
Nor  hangs  the  suave  drupe  afar ; 

Nor  is  the  drused  cliff  hastened  by  : 

While  sprent  with  glory  looms  the  sky, 
Scooped  from  some  giant,  sapphire  star. 

But  men  may  say:  Perforce  he  strives 
To  light  a  torch  of  fame  with  straws. 

Not  so;  but  down  our  tidal  lives, 
To  point  from  wide  effect  to  cause  : 

To  make  truth  better  understood  : 
To  throne  fair  freedom  higher  still  : 
To  show  the  broad  results  of  will. 

And  prove  that  wrong  must  tend  to  got ;d. 

My  words  are  weak:  they  do  not  hold 
The  wine  of  thought  I  wished  to  pour : 


CLEON    AT    OR  01' OS.  14IJ 

It  may  be  some  are  overbold  ; 

Well,  they  are  mine,  nor  less,  nor  more. 
JJut  lull  Iruition  comes  with  time; 

For  art  shall  cross  the  unknown  sea, 

Precursor  of  the  great  To-J3e, 
And  belt  the  world  i'rom  clime  to  clime. 


T  II  E     E  N  D. 


* 


